


Bells on a Hill

by HeyJude19



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a HEA, Dramione Romcom Fest, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Mutual Pining, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Post-War, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Romance, based on the movie The Wedding Singer, but if you've seen The Wedding Singer you'll have the whole plot laid out for you, no one sings in this story, yes the adam sandler one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27025906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyJude19/pseuds/HeyJude19
Summary: Left by his fiancée a month before the ceremony, Draco never got his dream wedding, so agreeing to assist Granger with her own wedding planning to distract himself from his broken engagement seems like a great idea—though Draco probably shouldn't fall in love with the bride-to-be. Based very (very) loosely on The Wedding Singer.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 238
Kudos: 558
Collections: Dramione RomCom Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [DramioneRomComFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DramioneRomComFest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> The Wedding Singer (1998) - claimed by HeyJude19

The whispers and hushed conversations began at the pre-ceremony cocktail hour. The pitying glances continued throughout the wedding. The smirking started at the reception, when the alcohol flowed more freely and loosened more tongues. Low tones and mutterings morphed into open stares and unkind musings voiced a little too loud.

“…he would show his face? You’d think someone from that family would have a bit more pride.”

“Maybe pride is what got him into this situation, poor sod.”

“She doesn’t seem too broken up about it though.”

A chortle. A snort.

“Dodged a curse I’d say. Did you see she’s on the arm of Marcus Flint?”

“Mmhmm, a wise decision, politically. If Astoria wanted a husband with a surname she could use to her advantage, she’s certainly read the tea leaves correctly.”

“It’s all rather embarrassing, I think. Would you have the gall to attend the wedding of the family of your ex-fiancée?”

“When have the Malfoys ever played by the rules? No, I think it’s rather correct he’s laid a bit low. Bet old Lucius is rolling in his grave.”

Hermione frowned at the backs of a group of wedding guests huddled together at the bar and not troubling to keep their malicious gossiping to a respectable level. Not that what any of them said would be considered respectable in the slightest, but you’d think common decency would ensure they cast a privacy charm or two.

She pursed her lips as she accepted the butterbeers for her and Ron. Turning, she found the tall red-head easily amongst the crowded ballroom and made her way back to their assigned table. The room was quite clearly split, with pureblood families and Slytherin alumni on one side of a parquet dance floor and Dumbledore’s Army recruits and a few immediate Muggle family members on the other, but such was the odd makeup of the social circles of the bride and groom.

Dean Thomas and Daphne Greengrass: the odd couple of their generation. They met doing volunteer work for war orphans, and two years later the firstborn heiress of a prominent Sacred Twenty-Eight family married a Muggleborn war hero.

Ron waved her over to one of the tables and gestured to their place card. “We’re sitting with Harry and Gin, not sure who the other two will be… maybe Neville and Hannah?”

“Nah, Neville was in the wedding party,” chimed in Ginny as she and Harry joined them.

“Harry, did you try the stuffed mushrooms? Bloody brilliant, I ate about five in one go,” Ron said and licked his fingers. “And the scallops wrapped in bacon… I could have done with more from the cheese board too.”

Hermione eyed the empty appetiser plate in his hand. “You didn’t think to save me anything?”

“Oh er, no, sorry Hermione.”

“It’s fine,” she said, as her stomach rumbled. She’d only been trapped in the bloody drinks queue and forced to hear boorish gossip to grab butterbeers for the both of them.

The foursome settled around the table and launched into comfortable chatter when a surprising pair approached their group.

Hermione had never seen the adult Draco Malfoy look dishevelled. His normally neatly coiffed platinum hair was mussed in a way that connoted he’d been running his hands through it or otherwise attempting to rip it out at the roots, and the bags under, and lines around his eyes made him appear much older than his 25 years. Head to toe in black dress robes, he looked like he’d come from a funeral, mouth twisted in a defeated grimace.

Almost a study in opposites, Blaise Zabini stood next to him, neat edges to his short black hair, robes an impeccable peacock blue color that flattered his dark skin, grinning mischievously.

“Well, well, well, it appears Astoria’s low blows know no bounds,” chortled Blaise. “Hello fellow table mates!”

With that gleeful pronouncement, he threw himself into the empty chair beside Ginny.

Malfoy remained standing, glaring down at his place card then back at the table marker, as if not allowing himself to believe the bride’s family would actually seat him here. Finally, he scoffed and addressed each of them in turn.

“Mrs. Potter.” “Mr. Malfoy.”

“Potter.” “Malfoy.”

“Weasel.” “Ferret.”

“Granger.” “Draco.”

The greetings held only the tinge of snark, they were all well past any sort of shared animosity and had matured enough to at least deliver polite nods and a handshake or two over the years when social situations called for interaction.

Instead of his usual confident swagger, Hermione noticed with concern that Draco practically staggered the rest of the way over before plopping into the only vacant seat in between her and Blaise. He immediately took out a flask and took a considerable swig. Blaise frowned at the behaviour, but Ginny called his attention away.

“Explain to me why sitting with a rather prestigious group of war heroes is a low blow?”

Draco snorted and muttered, “Fucking slap in the face innit.”

“Oh sweet Ginevra,” purred Blaise. “You don’t see how this is quite the not-so-subtle dig at our dear Draco here? When the rest of our friend group is seated across the way and all together? It’s a clever little bit of ostracising, telling Draco and the rest of our comrades just how Astoria has bullied her sister and decided to draw the friendship battle lines post break-up. What better way to tell us we’re not wanted here or anywhere, really, than by seating us with a group of people sure to make us feel uncomfortable?”

“You seem quite at your leisure,” remarked Ron, with a raised brow.

“…’m supposed to be a man of leisure… should’ve fucking stayed home, should’ve moved to fucking… Fiji…” muttered Draco around another mouthful of alcohol.

“That’s because I can fit in anywhere,” Blaise coupled his statement with a sly smirk at Ginny and a wink to Hermione. Harry and Ron just rolled their eyes, not threatened by his cheesy flirting in the least.

“In all seriousness,” continued Blaise, “it’s the principle of the thing. This isn’t just a perceived slight, this is an outright declaration that Draco and I are expendable nuisances.”

“’m not dependable insouciance…” slurred Draco.

“And so here we are,” Blaise spread his hands wide, “shunted to a corner table of Gryffindors for the crime of being offensive to the delicate sensibilities of the Greengrass family.”

Harry glanced back and forth between Draco and Blaise. “Err… are you two… together?”

Draco snorted into his flask while Blaise looked gravely insulted.

“Draco could only be so lucky. That you think Malfoy here is anywhere near my league is beyond insulting, Potter. I don’t have a fetish for skin the pallor of the ghost of a Victorian street urchin. No, Draco had his heart and bollocks ripped out, metaphorically of course, by the bride’s sister and I’m merely offensive as the lone bachelor amongst our friends. My singlehood is rather inconvenient you know, especially when it comes to table assignments. At least, that’s how Daph attempted to explain it.”

“She wouldn’t let you bring a date?”

“The numbers, Ginevra, _the numbers_. It’s painfully obvious you’ve never planned a wedding.”

“Nope,” said Ginny cheerfully. “Harry and I eloped.”

“Smart witch,” Blaise toasted her. “Besides, someone needs to make sure Draco behaves, since Narcissa declined to attend. She’ll hold a grudge against the Greengrasses for life and I for one, respect the hell out of her for that.”

Draco tipped back his head and emptied his flask down his throat then tossed it onto the table. “I’m fine, feel free to piss off and try to pull a bridesmaid,” Draco grumbled.

“As you wish, darling,” Blaise patted his cheek and then sauntered off in the direction of the bar.

The second his friend was out of sight, the rest of the table watched in alarm as Draco removed another flask from his robes, uncapped it, and drank out of it for an unsettling amount of time.

Ron frowned and slung an arm around the back of Hermione’s chair. “I don’t exactly like the bloke, but this is just sad. You should talk to him, you’re good at that sort of thing,” he whispered.

Hermione set her mouth in a grim line, determined to diffuse a bit of the awkwardness, when Draco spoke up.

“So, you lot,” he pointed a long finger at each of them. “Wuzz it like to think you’re in love? To be a willing participant in something made up?”

“Do you not believe in love?” challenged Hermione. Not exactly the compassionate statement she’d meant to make, but part of her bristled at his accusation. He turned in his chair and fixed her with a glassy, yet condescending look. She’d always found his gray eyes rather unique in their hue, but she’d never seen them with the sheen of drunkenness. She found she preferred his steadier and focused sober gaze.

“Love?” Draco chortled, some of the liquid from his flask dribbling down his sleeve. “Love is a joke, a charade a… look… I may not know much… but one thing’s for sure, love…” Draco broke off his rambling to swivel his face towards Harry.

“Hey Potter, Potter!” he sat up in his chair, spilling a bit more down his front, “Potter… you remember, you must remember… remember those badges I made? The Potter Stinks ones? Come on, you remember, yeah?”

“I sure do Malfoy, I sure do.”

“Right, so there’s my theory,” Draco declared with finality.

“Er… not sure we followed that mate,” said Ron, breaking the uneasy silence.

“LOVE STINKS!” he crowed, drawing more than a few stares from the tables around them. “Love stinks!” he shouted at only slightly less volume, earning yet more looks both of malicious intrigue and haughty disdain.

“I’ll get Zabini,” Ginny whispered urgently and moved quickly from the table.

Ron leaned across Hermione to speak lowly to Draco. “Oi, Malfoy. Think you’ve had enough tonight. Why don’t you—“

Draco’s hand slammed down on the table, rattling the cutlery and glasses. “You know something Weasel? You’re absolutely right. I have had enough!”

He stood abruptly, Hermione getting a strong whiff of whisky as he moved and staggered away. She chewed on her bottom lip as she watched him walk off, concern for the normally composed wizard etched on her face.

“Must have been some break up,” Hermione commented.

“You’ve no idea,” Ron replied grimly. “Mum was reading all about it in Witch Weekly. That was supposed to be the wedding of the century or something last month, but Astoria called it off. Oh, speaking of,” his face looked less grim, but only just. “Mum was thinking we should uh… well we should make some decisions about the wedding, yeah? Maybe you could go over there tomorrow and pick uhh... colours or flowers or something?”

“Oh… just me?”

“I’m helping George at the shop all day.”

“Oh umm… perhaps I can pop by for an hour or so. I’d like it if you were there too though, Ron, it’d be a big help to have—“

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN IF I COULD HAVE YOUR ATTENTION!”

They whipped their heads toward the centre of the dance floor to behold the horrifying vision of Draco holding his wand to his throat with no regard to modulating the strength of his Sonorus Charm.

You could have heard a pin drop, as the entire coterie of wedding guests fell silent to witness the public unravelling of the Malfoy heir.

“I SIMPLY WANTED TO—HANG ON LET ME JUST—there. I simply wanted to raise a glass to the beautiful wedded couple.”

At the head table, Daphne and Dean looked on apprehensively while Astoria set her chin, crossed her arms, and stared pointedly away from the spectacle.

“Daphne and Dean are newlyweds… it’s a right laugh,” he paused to take a substantial chug from his flask.

“Hey mate,” yelled an older wizard Hermione thought might be the bride’s uncle. “No one wants to hear your tale of woe, so why don’t you shut your mouth and let us eat dinner in peace!” The man drew his wand but Draco smirked.

“Be that as it may, I have a wand—” Draco disarmed him “—and you don’t, so you’re going to listen to every damn word I have to say.”

Hermione was torn between exasperation and admiration at the non-verbal disarming, given Draco’s current blood alcohol levels. But she couldn’t let someone self-destruct like this, not someone so clearly heartbroken.

“We need to do something,” Hermione hissed to Ron and Harry. “This isn’t right.”

“Where the bloody hell is Zabini?” Ron craned his neck around. Harry removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You’re right Hermione it’s just… gods, it’s always us, isn’t it?” Harry stood and Hermione followed suit, glaring at Ron when he remained seated.

Ron glanced down longingly at the plate of pork tenderloin that had just landed in front of him courtesy of the waitstaff, but stood along with them.

“Bloody ferret,” he mumbled as the trio moved through the crowd to stage a rescue attempt, bumping into Ginny.

“No sign of Zabini?”

“Oh I found him all right. Apparently having his hands up the gown of Tracey Davis is much more important than helping his friend.”

Draco’s magically amplified voice drowned out further conversation.

“So, as I was saying… Dean loves Daphne, and isn’t that precious? Well what about in a few years Dean? Maybe she’ll fall for someone else?” He began gesturing vaguely around the room. “So he loves her, but maybe she loves that wizard over there… but he loves somebody else… it’s all a sham, see? You really just cannot win, trust me. And so it goes until the day you die—and” he broke off mid rant and pointed at the approaching Harry.

“—Harry Potter everyone, he knows what I’m talking about, am I right? Love stinks!”

But before Harry or perhaps another friendlier face could reach Draco, the previously disarmed older gentleman got there first and landed a solid blow to Draco’s nose.

Amid the gasps and shrieks from the guests, Hermione quickly Stunned the enraged relative, Ginny leapt into crowd control action along with a few of the groomsmen, and Ron and Harry hoisted a bleeding Draco off the floor and out a back door.

Hermione scurried along after her friends and a slurring and bruised Draco. They deposited him on a bench behind the venue and Harry jumped into Auror first-aid training. He tipped back Draco’s head and quickly healed his nose and siphoned away the blood, his beneficiary only groaning and grunting in thanks. Hermione and Ron hovered awkwardly off to the side, unsure of what else could be done for the unfortunate man.

“All right Malfoy? Any dizziness? Any blurriness around your vision?”

“The only thing in my vision is a four-eyed git.”

Harry barked out a laugh. “Sounds about right for you. Do you need us to fetch someone for you? Zabini perhaps?”

Draco closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the bench. “I, unlike Blaise, am a good friend and wouldn’t dare interrupt his quest to convince three quarters of the wedding party that he does not have a venereal disease,” he huffed out a hollow chuckle. “You may return to the festivities now Potter. I appreciate the heroics on my behalf.”

Harry straightened up and looked uneasily down at him for a moment before shrugging. But as Ron slung his arm around Hermione’s shoulders and steered her back towards the reception, she stole one last look at Draco.

She’d never seen someone look so alone. Not just because he was physically the sole person occupying the lone bench of an empty courtyard, but because he truly looked like he did not think a single person cared that he existed in such a state.

“You two go on,” she whispered to Ron and Harry and disentangled herself from her fiancé’s embrace. “I think he could use some company.” To his credit, Ron only frowned briefly before giving her a nod and a peck on the forehead.

When the door swung shut on the night air, Hermione coughed lightly to announce her continued presence to Draco.

“I do not need a minder, Granger,” he clipped without opening his eyes as she moved closer.

“No, you need to sober up,” she countered and sat down next to him, leaving a good few feet of space between them.

“Yes, well that’d be lovely if I…” he trailed off and cracked an eye open when he heard the clinking sound of a vial. She smirked as she held the glass in front of his stunned face.

“Merlin, your reputation as a life-saving witch is well-earned,” he breathed and greedily downed the potion. His gratitude disappeared, as his body lurched forward to sputter and cough.

“Eurghh… this is bloody awful! This is the generic from the apothecary, yes?”

Hermione gave him her best disapproving frown. “Not sure what you expected it to taste like, it’s a Sober-Up Potion. I’m sure you’re familiar.”

“Waving aside your rude assumptions about my drinking habits, I’ve not tasted a brew this… inexpert in years.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and snatched the empty vial out of his hands. “Yes, well, you’re welcome all the same. Which brand would you have gone with instead?”

“None,” he said bluntly. “I brew my own. The chain apothecaries love to cut corners and don’t bother to include crushed peppermint leaves. Plus I always add a dash of spiced rum both for taste and that bit of ‘hair of the dog’ effect.”

His normal speech patterns returned, so the potion had some efficacy, even if the tastes weren’t to his usual high standards. He leaned back and looked at her with clearer, yet sheepish eyes.

“Thanks Granger… and I suppose you can tell your little friends thanks as well.” She’d never seen Draco blush before.

Hermione nodded and blew out a breath of chilly night air. “Any time, I always have one on hand for events and such for Ron.”

“Not yourself?”

Her turn to blush. “Oh! Well no, not really, I’m not much of a drinker myself. Doesn’t take much for me to start nodding off. I just throw one in my bag for him.”

They both turned their gazes to the darkened grounds of the gardens behind the estate. A comfortable silence fell, Hermione finding the quiet peace of the evening to be much more enjoyable than the raucous ballroom. If she’d planned ahead, not that her evening plans even in her wildest dreams included sitting outside with Draco Malfoy, she’d have brought her cloak along. The temperature wasn’t unbearable for late summer, but her sleeveless navy gown dipped quite low down her back. Goosebumps appeared along her bare skin and she rubbed her hands up and down her arms a few times in an attempt to generate warmth.

“Cold?”

“A bit, yes.”

Before she could reach for her wand and cast a Warming Charm or two, Draco unclasped his outer robes. In one fluid motion, he cast a long arm around her, and she suddenly found herself draped in rich black fabric that smelled of the aforementioned peppermint, cloves, and a not insignificant hint of whisky.

Hermione pulled it tighter around herself and gave him a shy smile and a quiet, “Thank you.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment and then scooted back to his original position. They resumed their quiet contemplation of the shadowy lawns before she heard him clear his throat.

“Congratulations, by the way.”

Hermione turned her head sharply in his direction and shot him a puzzled look. “On your engagement,” he said and nodded at the ring on her hand.

“Oh! Right. Thank you.”

“When’s the big day?”

“Eight months to go.”

Hermione sighed and fiddled with the gorgeous diamond on her left ring finger. “I wish I could muster more enthusiasm for it… I don’t think I’m cut out as a blushing bride. All this… frippery just overwhelms me. And I—“ She trailed off in horror as she realised what she’d just admitted aloud, and to whom.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear about all this.”

To her surprise, Draco shook his head and grinned. “While I must admit, it does give me a bit of a thrill to hear that you struggle with something and are therefore human,” she glared, but he only chuckled. A genuine sound, deep from his throat and not scathing in the least.

“You’ve actually got the wrong end of the broom here. I’m not suicidal or anything Granger, my past relationship problems shouldn’t preclude you from speaking about your wedding. And Merlin,” he breathed out a long exhale and sank back against the bench. “I really wanted a wedding.”

Of all the responses she expected out of Draco, the wistfulness he’d spent on the syllables of the word “wedding” was not one she’d considered.

“You… wanted a wedding?”

He blinked right back at her and replied with a blunt, “I love weddings.”

“You? You, Draco Malfoy… you love weddings?”

“Oh don’t act so surprised,” he playfully nudged her shoulder. “Tonight’s breakdown being the exception given my current emotional state. They’re about hope, you know? Is it so wrong I wanted a bit of that for myself?”

Hermione fell silent, properly chastened even if he hadn’t said it unkindly.

“But that’s not a reason to marry someone,” she quietly offered.

“Twenty points to Gryffindor. So I don’t begrudge Astoria, I don’t.” He ran a hand through his thoroughly unkempt hair.

“We had different expectations.” His fingers fiddled with an emerald cufflink. Hermione turned towards him, a silent entreaty on her face for him to continue, if he wanted.

“I understand, you know, I can be… difficult to deal with. People assume I’m like my father… she thought it would be a life of charity galas, Ministry shindigs, society parties, political ambitions. She certainly didn’t sign up for a borderline recluse with a guilt complex who dabbles in potions with no desire to shackle myself to a career.”

Hermione marveled at the stream of honesty pouring forth from Draco. Sober-Up, while imbued with certain properties akin to a Calming Draught, did not act instantaneously and his continued mild intoxication might explain his inclination to share these personal details.

“I don’t think she was ready for a real marriage,” Draco continued. He ruffled the back of his hair. “But I want that. I want someone to share the hard days, someone who wouldn’t shy away from… from the difficulties. I’m not saying I need someone to fix me, fix my problems. I’d like a marriage of equals of… honestly, fuck if I know, but I want someone who’ll grow old with me.”

“That’s what everyone wants, though, isn’t it?”

“Apparently not.”

“Well I do.”

A strange thing for them to have in common, she mused, but then perhaps she didn’t know Draco very well at all. Hermione shifted, accidentally burrowing further into his robes. She let out an awkward cough, itching to move away from such heavy conversation.

“So you… enjoyed it? All the wedding planning? All the silly logistics?”

She had a funny image in her mind of Draco excitedly picking out china patterns and gushing over serviette colours.

He nodded and smiled, Hermione finding this expression at odds with his expression when speaking of his former fiancée. “I did, indeed. Perhaps if I hadn’t been so caught up in the minutiae I would have… I would have noticed something sooner.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself, Draco. I’m sure it doesn’t feel like it at the moment but she did you a favour leaving now, before the marriage.”

“I suppose,” he blew out a frustrated breath. “Must you always be right Granger?”

“It’s one of my hobbies.”

Draco laughed, a warmer, richer sound than she was accustomed to from him. It emboldened her into an assertive statement, one she’d give to friends when she felt they needed her advice. A bossy tendency she’d never outgrown.

“You need a hobby.”

“I’ve got one of those, thank you very much.”

“No, you need a social hobby. Potion making and drinking alcohol are things you seem to enjoy solo.”

She sensed something else about Draco, a personality trait that might explain his prior need to throw himself into planning a wedding. He may crave his solitude, but that didn’t make him idle, not in the least. He needed to be busy, at all times and on his terms, because slowing down meant dwelling on pasts and regrets well enough forgotten. Even if wedding planning was not a passion they shared, she could understand that burning need to distract from the daily crush of memories. Or in her case, from thinking of a happy couple in Australia with no knowledge of a daughter about to be married.

An idea struck. An odd, amusing, and fortuitous idea. An idea that made her perk up and offer him a bright-eyed smile. Before she could dwell on the ludicrousness about to leave her mouth, it entered the realm of spoken word.

“I know! You can help me plan my wedding!”

Draco, who finally seemed on the verge of reverting to his unflappable mien, took his angular chin in hand and turned to her with a furrowed brow.

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. Please Malfoy? I’ve no idea what I’m doing, Ron’s not exactly a… planner type. Ginny and Harry eloped and are two of the most disorganised functional disasters, and Molly is going to just run roughshod over me if I don’t start presenting firm details. My mum’s not around and… please?”

“As pathetic as your little pitch just was… no.”

“You owe me!”

He sat up straight at this accusation, wariness and apprehension in his gaze.

“For what?”

She pretended to think hard and tapped her chin in mock thought. “Hmm… let’s see, how many years of bloody purity nonsense did you spew at me?”

“I wrote you an apology letter!” he sputtered indignantly. “You said you accepted and I was forgiven!”

“And so I did, but did you forget the little postscript you included?”

His bewilderment at her request morphed into a look that often gave her a thrill of satisfaction on others. The look of a conversational partner about to have self-incriminating facts thrown in their face by her steel trap of a memory.

“It read: ‘Granger, though I am unsure you would ever accept my assistance in any area of your life, as you are a singularly capable witch, should I ever be able to help you in any way, you need only ask as I remain in your debt.’”

“How… how did you have that memorised?”

“Well it was quite eloquent.”

Draco sighed. “Look, it’s flattering you would trust my taste in this arena, and yes, I do owe you—”

“So we agree then, you do owe me?” She gave him an impish smile which he did not return, so she tried to meet him halfway.

“If you’re not comfortable meeting in person, I won’t intrude on your time. I know you enjoy your privacy. Perhaps I could run potential vendors by you? Alternatively, you could owl me everyone you contracted with, should you wish to recommend their services.”

Draco tipped his head back and forth, neither confirming nor denying his acquiescence.

Hermione tried to dial up the pity. “I could use all the help I can get. I’ll probably get taken advantage of without your help.”

“How so?”

“My fame for one. People will see the war heroine with a sizeable bank account. I’ve no idea how to talk about this… stuff and more cunning vendors will know they’re talking to a complete novice. And, this is a rather sinister thought, but I can’t help but think some might see a Muggleborn witch and label me naïve to the ways of magical weddings.”

She deliberately made her eyes wide and round with her earnest plea centered on blood prejudice. Draco blew out a resigned breath and Hermione knew she’d won.

“I’ll admit, I’ve failed at a lot of things in my life. Being a good son, being a death eater, getting married… but you know what?”

He turned to her with a roguish grin. “I planned a bloody fantastic wedding.”

Draco held out a hand. “You’ve got a deal Granger. I’ll help where I can.”


	2. Chapter 2

It started with a slow trickle of letters. Once a week at most for the first month, Granger would send a tentative question about a wedding vendor and Draco would cordially reply.

It took two lines, just two, for their letters to veer into rambling dissertations that included nary a mention of either a wedding or any plans related to such an occasion.

“By the way, I tried to recreate a Sober-Up Potion using crushed peppermint leaves and some spiced rum and I have to admit I’m at a loss. Could you walk me through your recipe and brewing process?”

Draco remembered grinning, a rare action for his face these days, and hurriedly scribbling back a teasing reply about how now she’d be indebted to him and devoting far too many lines to weaving an elaborate and false story about coveted family potion secrets before rewarding Granger with his detailed notes for the perfect Sober-Up.

She replied with one line: “Malfoy. You need to patent this.”

Thus began a rapid exchange of ideas on proper stirring techniques, the prices of ingredients, which countries produced the best quality beetle eyes, the ethics of using powdered unicorn horns, and even a surprising agreement that solid gold cauldrons were not only unnecessary, but detrimental to most potions.

Eventually though, Granger circled back to her request for his assistance.

“I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me, Ron, Harry and Ginny to our cake testing this weekend? We’ve got a 10 a.m. slot at Trixie’s Treats in Diagon this coming Saturday.”

Draco hesitated over how to reply for a few hours. Could he do this? Could he watch a happy couple feed each other cake samples and giggle into their hands, blissfully high on both sugar and the dreams of their upcoming nuptials? But Draco’s conscience, a recently grown organ and a bothersome one at that, reminded him that he owed Granger for quite a number of things. This was the least he could do.

Still, the more cunning part of him played one last card to see if he could have an out.

“Of course Granger, I’d be happy to offer my tasting services. May I inquire as to how your fiancé will feel about my presence?”

Part of him expected the Weasel to blow up over his inclusion. Though they were cordial nowadays, Weasley couldn’t possibly want his childhood nemesis involved in such an intimate process? But Granger’s next owl blew that excuse out of the water.

“Ron says, and this is a direct quote I’d like to add: Malfoy’s a posh bloke, yeah? Be nice to get his opinion on this… stuff.”

Which is how Draco found himself leaning against a brick building in Diagon Alley on a Saturday, prepared to deliver some unfortunate news to Granger and her friends.

Since he’d last seen all of them, he’d had to do some soul-searching. Also a lot of recreational brewing, escaping to his potions lab so as to avoid Narcissa’s two recent modes of existing: fury at his treatment at the hands of Astoria and disappointment at the way Draco had conducted himself in front of a gossip-crazed crowd.

He’d swallowed his pride and sent a very lengthy apology to both Dean and Daphne for his abominable behaviour at their wedding. Dean replied cordially enough but Daphne’s signature was nowhere to be found on the letter. Probably for the best as Draco would prefer not to associate with any member of the Greengrass family ever again.

He wondered how the famous foursome would regard him this time. Open pity? Jeering mockery? Draco shook away the morose thoughts, remembering how they’d been the ones to come to his aid in the thick of his mortifyingly public descent to rock bottom.

He spotted Potter and Ginny first. Arm and arm, they had the flushed faces and bright-eyed look of a couple secure in their affection for one another. That easy warmth and physicality looked natural and Draco wondered if he and Astoria ever looked that way to others’ gazes. If anyone could convince him that marriage could indeed involve genuine love, it’d probably be the Potters. Gross.

Weasley loped next to them, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, a slight air of tension about his lanky form. He looked back over his shoulder every so often and Draco saw that Granger trailed a few feet behind, nose almost brushing the parchment she read.

At Daphne and Dean’s wedding, she’d worn a lovely gown, navy if he recalled correctly. She did manage to look rather becoming at every formal occasion he’d seen her attend in recent years, her wild curls tamed into a chignon or a sleek and tight up-do.

But today, Granger let her curls roam free to stretch their creeping tendrils all about and around her face, neck, and arms. Though it would never be his place to say, he wanted to tell her she should make sure to keep her hair that way for her wedding; loose and tumbling, a sweet contrast to her controlled manner and domineering personality.

Weasley saw him first and gave a sort of grimace and an awkward half-wave. He tugged Granger out of her reverie and pointed in his direction. She looked up from her parchment and beamed when she saw him. Draco wondered if her smile would stay that friendly when he informed the bride of his recent actions on her behalf.

“Hi Draco!” “Hello Granger.”

“Malfoy.” “Weasley.”

“Malfoy.” “Potter.”

“Hermione’s wedding consultant.” “Potter’s emotional support Weasel.”

Ginny snorted. “Honestly, you’re not that far off. So, who’s ready to taste some cakes!”

The group moved towards the bakery door, but Draco scrambled to stop them.

“Err about that…”

Four pairs of eyes looked to him.

“I umm… I may have cancelled your appointment.”

Four open mouths.

Granger broke first. “You did WHAT!?”

Draco held up a placating hand. “Let me explain before you hex me between the eyes. Beatrice Miter owns and operates this bakery. She’s the ‘Trixie’ in the name and I’m guessing the lot of you have no idea who—”

“I know how Beatrice Miter is,” said Granger, fury now radiating from her small frame.

Three heads turned in her direction.

“Her husband is on the Wizengamot and their son works in magical law. They were one of the families against my bill last spring on safe working conditions and fair wages for house elves owned by private businesses.”

“Your bill that didn’t pass,” Weasley confirmed quietly and the group shared uneasy glances.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “A whole two years’ worth of work from my department just wiped away.” She took a deep breath and shook back her sheet of hair.

“So I imagine that were we to select this particular bakery for our wedding that the cake would in fact have been made by unpaid and possibly abused elves.” She exhaled shakily and Weasley squeezed her arm in support. Draco hated that he’d once again caused Hermione Granger pain, even if it were for the best in the long run.

Weasley turned to Draco with a desperate plea.

“So now what are we supposed to do for a wedding cake?”

Draco perked up, glad he’d already solved this particular quandary. “I took the liberty of scheduling you a tasting slot at _Sucre._ But unfortunately it’s not for a few months’ time and—”

Hermione straightened up in shock. “Are you serious? How on earth did you manage that?”

“I know the owner,” he replied cryptically. The owner being Pansy Parkinson, but Draco didn’t think anyone needed to know that particular detail just yet. “And I know for a fact that everything they bake is by paid human hands.”

“So no cake today then?” Ginny asked with a pout and stomped her foot in a mock tantrum, breaking the tension a bit.

“Sorry Gin, you and Harry are free to enjoy your day.” Hermione scanned her list again. “I suppose Ron and I could visit the parchment shop instead and get the invitations selected?”

Weasley’s face coloured slightly and Draco knew an impending disappointment when he saw one. He stared down at his shoes to avoid seeing it splashed across Granger’s face.

“Well… actually Hermione since you don’t really need me for that… I thought… you know George could use the help today and well… Malfoy’s here and all, he could probably stick around and—”

Draco chanced a glance at the Potters and saw their silent exchange. Raised brows and chewed lips telling a tale of a common occurrence between Weasley and Granger, enduring in its discomfort level as their two friends navigated a delicate relationship matter.

“He’s not hired help Ron, I can’t ask him to give up his whole afternoon.”

“I don’t mind Granger, really.” Draco spoke up, putting the rest of the group out of their collective misery.

The Potters strolled away with interlaced fingers and cheery waves as Weasley brushed by him with a quick and low, “thanks Malfoy, I appreciate this,” and bustled off in the opposite direction.

Draco turned back to Granger with a forced smile. “So. Invitations?”

* * *

“Well, which do you think?”

She’d finally narrowed it down to two different types of cardstock. Draco picked up the first sample and held it to the light. Decently opaque. He dragged a finger along the paper and then folded it in half. Reasonably sturdy. He brought it to his face and sniffed it.

He heard a giggle to his right.

He dropped the parchment in acute embarrassment.

“Oh no, I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you!” Granger insisted and picked up the parchment off the floor that Draco desperately wished would have opened and swallowed him whole by now.

She placed it back on the counter. “Really, Draco, I promise I’m not, it’s just—“ she broke off in a chuckle again. “I never thought I’d meet another person who also sniffs parchment as a quality test.”

Draco scratched the back of his neck. “Right well, let’s have the second one then.”

He performed the same routine, mostly just to hear Granger laugh again, but his test rendered successful results for their true purpose.

“This one’s far too flimsy for an invitation,” he concluded. “See how easily I can roll it into a scroll? You want thicker parchment for the bolder ink you selected.”

She took the sample from him. “Excellent point, plus,” she brought it to her nose, “it carries more of a… serious scent. This wasn’t meant for frivolous coloured ink or party details.”

“You know what this is perfect for?” Draco snatched it back from her. “Vial labels and formulas.”

Hermione tugged it out of his grip. “Yes, one could easily stick this to ingredient jars as well.”

Draco wrested it back. “Plus you could buy it in bulk reams and save a few Galleons.”

As she made to steal it away again, Draco smirked and extended his long arm upwards, making the parchment well out of reach for someone as vertically challenged as Granger, at least in comparison to him.

Granger scowled and jumped once, a pathetic attempt that came nowhere near the height necessary to accomplish her goal, before giving up and gathering up the other sample.

“I’ll tell the clerk I’ve selected this one,” she said in a haughty voice over her shoulder and moved toward the register.

Purchase and wedding task complete, she met Draco outside the shop and squinted at his empty hands.

“Why didn’t you buy the other parchment?”

“Whatever for?”

“Your own brewing!” she asserted.

“Oh. Well it’s… I mean it’s not like I have my own shop or anything.”

They turned simultaneously, ambling in the same direction but with no real destination.

“Though if I did,” Draco mused, “I’d have that for my potion labels and such. It truly was ideal for that sort of thing. It’d be nice to do that… one day.”

He anticipated a look of exasperation. A look Astoria used to shoot him. A look that conveyed “if you just applied yourself you could benefit from participating in high society, you could build up the former glory of the Malfoy name. You’re certainly not going to do that with a potions shop.”

Instead, Granger looked excited at the very prospect.

“Why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I what?”

“Have your own potions shop! Not to be gauche, but surely you could afford a storefront.”

“With my gold, yes. With my surname, not so much.”

“I don’t know Draco, I think people would surprise you. You’re a talented brewer and I think you’re selling yourself short.”

Kindness from her unnerved him. That sort of effusive niceness was wasted on a man like him. Then again, Draco imagined Granger as the type of person that could dole out sentiment without a second thought.

“Just a silly dream Granger, don’t read too much into it.”

Hermione snorted. “Liar. But if you ever do open that shop, I’d be your first customer.”

Draco knew his face flushed, an unfortunate reaction for a man of his pallor. Granger thankfully dropped the subject then as they came upon the Leaky Cauldron and she checked her watch.

“Want to grab a late lunch? I’m starved since I skipped breakfast to save room for cake and Ron won’t be home for a few hours yet.”

Draco found sitting with Hermione Granger in a pub booth a more difficult situation than anticipated. Scribbling letters and sending owls at all hours of the day and night? Easy. Debating the merits of different ingredient substitutes in common potions? Simple. Irritating her in a parchment shop after discovering a swot-like trait they shared? Mildly delightful.

But this had veered into the territory of awkward silence between two people who’d known each other a long time but had never shared a meal together.

Perhaps discussing the wedding, the entire reason for his existence in Granger’s world, might help.

“So. You and Weasley. That’s… expected.”

“Was that meant to be a compliment?”

Draco let out a reluctant chuckle. “That was a bit rubbish wasn’t it?”

“Not incorrect though.” She took a thoughtful sip of her butterbeer. “I’m sure our engagement was no surprise to anyone. We’ve been dating since the war ended, been best friends since First Year. It was only natural to continue on.”

Not that he knew Granger to be the simpering, gushy type, but he found her answer somewhat lacking in passion.

“That must be nice,” Draco offered. “To know you’re marrying your best friend.”

She nodded, an overenthusiastic bobbing of her head that riled her hair more than it should.

“Right, yes. It is that. Nice and you know, like I said, the natural way of things… so yes it’s nice. Very nice.”

Granger blushed and picked at her beef stew. She seemed like she had more to say, so Draco waited her out.

“Thank you, by the way for earlier. Only one wedding task in and you’ve already proven me right.”

“How so?”

She pushed her half empty bowl away to lean her elbows on the table, all earnestness and sincerity.

“This isn’t meant as a dig, but as a pureblood I’m sure you were raised knowing the names of all these influential families. You know how they’re connected, how they operate, which ones are in blood feuds, and which own shady businesses.”

Draco didn’t feel offended in the least. But her statement, while factual, did cause him a twinge of regret that through the silly circumstances of their births they’d been marked down as different before they’d drawn their first breath. She’d only pointed out the truth, that on one level they couldn’t quite relate but he found the sensation uncomfortable, especially after their invigorating exchange of letters. He wanted to list off things they did have in common instead. Draco had long since learned that setting himself apart from Hermione Granger’s attributes did more of a disservice to him than to her.

She continued. “Aside from my anger over the defeated bill, it was just another reminder that I’m an outsider. I’ve always felt that way.”

Back on common ground then, but for an unfortunate reason. Despite his pampered youth he knew all too well that feeling of not quite knowing where you belong. A failure as a son, as a Death Eater, as a good person, as a potential husband…

Granger picked at the paper label of her bottle, looking forlorn. A sensation stabbed at him from the inside, prodding at him to change the expression on her face for the better.

“Surely you know by now that most of our world holds you in high regard. And while I wouldn’t say I particularly enjoy their presence, your friends do as well.”

She huffed out a reluctant laugh but sobered again. “I know, and I love them dearly, but sometimes I’m not sure they quite understand it either. I’ve never really outgrown that childhood insecurity of worrying over whether my own friends actually like me or if I’m merely tolerable.”

She paused but then finished the quiet confession. “It’s hard for me to make friends.”

“Me too,” Draco replied before he could command his mouth.

Granger’s eyes met his and he saw a brief flicker of surprise in their depths before he saw the click of understanding. He knew her brain fired at a freakishly fast rate and he wondered about the thought path she’d traversed at a superhuman speed. Did she recall how at school he’d not had friends but bodyguards? How he’d no one to turn to during the massive trauma of his Sixth Year? How he’d desperately flung himself into the arms of the first woman who’d deigned to look at him with something other than disgust?

“Well never mind childhood complexes, you certainly have an abundance of them now. And I’ll let you in on a secret, Granger.” He leaned dramatically towards her and stage-whispered, “I think they rather like you.”

She laughed and swatted him with her napkin.

“You’re hardly a loner either, you have Blaise,” she countered.

“No, I have a self-serving dandy and he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

Another laugh, a rather pretty sound, he thought.

“What about Pansy? Do you still see much of her?”

“When I can. She and Astoria never really got on so we’re in a bit of a… rebuilding phase. But she’s thriving.”

Granger didn’t respond but to raise a disbelieving brow.

“She’s not the same girl from Hogwarts, I can assure you of that,” Draco insisted. “It’s amazing what coming into your inheritance without accompanying parental pressures can do for one’s independence.”

“Like you?”

Draco shrugged away the compliment she’d wrapped in that question and changed topics. 

“So, as an official representative of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, tell me about this elf bill you proposed. I’m not saying I agree, mind you.”

All day he’d waited for this. To see the Granger who came alive with sparkling passion.

“How could you not agree with it!? It didn’t even include private residences, the sole focus was on businesses using unpaid labour allowing them to reap profits off the backs of—”

And off she went. It was one thing to read her arguments in words and imagine her voice speaking, but it was a whole other separate wonder to hear and witness it in the flesh. Her hands flapped up and down. Her eyes blazed. Her skin flushed. Her curls bounced and shifted, never content to stay in one place as they obeyed the whims of their overexcited owner.

He did of course manage to snuff it out. By asking about the rest of her wedding agenda.

“Oh. Right,” she deflated and pulled out a planner. He pulled out his and she gave him various dates and times, evenings and mornings, weekends and weeknights. Draco dutifully recorded it all, committed verbally to about half, privately knowing he’d be free for all of it.

But they’d started this day on a bit of a down note and Draco couldn’t suppress the urge to turn it around before parting ways.

So he ordered them a second round of drinks.

“In your last letter you mentioned something about crushing the sophorous bean to yield more juice instead of cutting it. How on earth did you think of that?”

She rewarded him with a mischievous grin and a reignited flame in her eyes. “Have I never told you why Harry was suddenly so good at potions in our Sixth Year?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So. In addition to mistaking the word count for this piece, I also miscounted my chapters. There will be 7 total. Please send messages of support to my alphabet mrsbutlertron (@popsiclememories on tumblr) for putting up with my inability to do numbers. Thank you for keeping my sanity mostly in check, my friend!
> 
> As far as a posting schedule for the rest of this story, I’m now aiming for a chapter every weekend. The next update will be November 1.
> 
> Thank you to everyone reading! Comments/kudos always appreciated as well as visitors on tumblr: [@heyjude19-writing](https://heyjude19-writing.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

Draco thought today would be difficult, but challenged the universe to surprise him. He strolled up to the entrance of Granger and Weasley’s selected wedding venue, grateful at least that he didn’t have to help with this decision. 

Because he couldn’t have an unbiased opinion here. There was only ever one place where Draco wanted to get married. 

The grounds of Malfoy Manor were always resplendent in late June. The perfect setting for a wedding ceremony. Astoria would have glided down the back lawns along a long stretch of carpeted aisle before reaching Draco at the gazebo, overlooking a pond with austere weeping willows dotted along its banks and swans sailing gracefully in the water. One couldn’t breathe without inhaling the sweet scent of the lush garden of roses.

It would have been the first event held at the Manor since the end of the war. Draco’s wedding was meant to welcome light and happiness back into their formerly magnificent, enviable home. The celebration of his and Astoria’s love would drive away the lingering pall of darkness and traumatic memories. 

Now his family home just remained a picturesque property in Wiltshire with two reclusive occupants and a needlessly lavish garden. The day after Astoria broke off their engagement, Draco had been tempted to set fire to the entirety of the collected flora but his mother would have assuredly murdered him. Narcissa might deny it, but Draco had a sneaking suspicion her meticulously cultivated roses usurped even him in her heart.

Instead, he’d contented himself with casting an _Incendio_ on all the decorative flourishes he’d already added to the gazebo. Creeping tendrils of honeysuckle and clusters of hydrangeas tied together with silk ribbons that would have draped around the couple standing at the mouth of the gazebo, framing them beautifully. He destroyed it in two swishes of his Hawthorn wand. No more flowers, no more ribbons, no more hope for a perfect June wedding. No more hope for restoring the Manor to its former glory. 

Every single Malfoy ancestor had been married on the grounds since the Manor’s construction. It seemed Draco would once again be the exception to his line’s grand legacy. 

Now here he was on a fall afternoon helping another couple craft a celebration he’d likely never have. 

He found Granger lingering alone in the entrance hall of the Campane Estate. 

“Hi Draco!” “Hello Granger.”

Draco glanced around. “Are we waiting on the others?”

Granger pursed her lips. “Just us today, I’m afraid.”

She turned and they walked the long hall towards the ballroom but she stopped suddenly and faced him. 

“And actually I’m sorry, I realise now I could have just done this bit by myself and it was so silly of me to even ask you or anyone, really, to come along, but I’ll just speak to the wedding coordinator about the schedule of events—and I only didn’t owl you to cancel because you were so gracious to recommend the winery providing all the wines for the reception—and I know we’ll get to do a tasting and I do hate drinking alone and it’s not exactly a healthy practice—but I don’t even know how to tell the difference between different wines or grape varietals and I’m a little nervous the sommelier might bully me into selecting certain bottles and I figured someone like you could—”

“Granger!”

Her mouth snapped shut and she looked horrified at the unintentional and rapid stream of words she’d thrown in his general direction. He could script her next reactions: a fallen face, a bitten lip, an apology for daring to ask something of another person.

Draco cut in before Granger could begin the self-flagellation. 

“You invited me to come and I agreed. You hardly sent me a court summons. Do you always make such a to-do about asking people for help?”

She huffed out a laugh and wrung her hands together. 

“Sorry, I’m just so relieved someone else is here. Ginny had practice, Harry got called in to work, Molly’s looking after a few of the grandchildren today and Ron had to go help George.”

Draco frowned. That seemed to be a popular refrain to explain Weasley’s absence in almost all of his own wedding planning. Draco learned a few weeks ago to not even bother with asking the question, “What does Weasley think about this?” when helping her make a wedding decision. Her replies consistently swapped back and forth between “Oh, he said he’s fine with whatever I choose,” and, “He’s not really had time to think about it with everything else going on.”

A surge of bitter anger on Granger’s behalf rose within him. He knew exactly how it felt to be the only half invested in the wedding and he’d not wish that heartache on anyone. Especially on Granger. 

Still, an outright accusation of her fiancé being a less than supportive partner probably wouldn’t go over well. 

“Weasley seems awfully… dedicated to his brother’s business,” Draco said evenly as they continued walking. 

Granger nodded solemnly and her answer lacked any bitterness. “He is. It was hard, losing Fred. I don’t think George ever pictured life without him and he… struggles a lot still. Ron feels it’s his job to step up since, you know, we’re not married with a family life or anything.”

“Noble of him. But draining, I imagine.”

She hummed in agreement. 

Draco could concede that Weasley’s neglect of Granger didn’t seem to stem from nefarious intentions nor from cruel indifference. He could at least appreciate how it felt to be the family member relied upon to hold things together with burdensome expectations thrust upon your shoulders. Draco supposed in addition to aiding Granger, this wedding assistance could also serve as his penance to the Weasley brood.

They entered the ballroom and Draco narrowed his eyes when he clocked a familiar figure leaning against the marble bar. A figure he hadn’t anticipated dealing with until later today. 

Granger followed his stare. “Is that… Blaise?”

“It would appear so,” Draco replied through gritted teeth. 

Blaise threw an amused grin in their direction and sauntered over. He seemed to take up more space than usual, possibly due to the contrast of his brilliantly coloured robes, complete with crushed velvet cape and silk pocket square, against the neutral colour scheme of the room. 

“Blaise, is there a reason for your presence? I contracted with your vineyard, not with you, personally.”

Blaise ignored him and took Granger’s hand to lightly kiss her knuckles. 

“Granger, you look beautiful as always.”

“Thank you Blaise, and you look, um…”

“He looks like someone ordered an escort with the specifications that they dress like a Wizengamot member,” Draco interjected. 

Far from offended, Blaise shrugged and swept a hand down his garish outfit. 

“The court doesn’t own the sole rights to plum-coloured robes and I can actually pull it off unlike most of those old windbags.”

Granger’s lips twitched and she let out a reluctant laugh. “So you run the winery Draco recommended? Are you leading our tasting today?”

“Alas, love, I am not a fully qualified sommelier, merely a frequent imbiber who happens to own several properties in Tuscany. I’ve sent my best down to the gardens for the tasting this afternoon for you and your…” his gleaming eyes slid to Draco, “new friend.”

Granger missed the implication and already had her nose in her planner. “I’ve got to iron out some details with the coordinator. Draco you can catch up with Blaise if you like and I’ll meet you in the gardens in a bit?”

“Lovely!” Blaise answered for him and Granger bustled off to find the venue proprietor. 

Draco whirled towards his friend in suspicious anger the second she was out of ear shot. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh I just had to see this for myself. You know I almost didn’t believe Pansy when she told me you owled her for a cake tasting slot on behalf of Granger. Granger and Weasley. Because Granger is getting married to Weasley.”

“Your point?”

Blaise shrugged. “Merely wondering why you are strolling about a wedding hall with a gorgeous witch whose fiancé is nowhere in sight, and also scheduling appointments and chatting up vendors for a wedding that is not yours.” 

“She asked for my help and I agreed. As a friend. Which is something people do for their friends, though you seem to have forgotten that as of late.”

Blaise sniffed haughtily at the accusation. “Hard to be a friend when one party ignores the other. You haven’t been returning my owls. Not since your spectacularly entertaining meltdown at Daph’s wedding.”

“Enjoyed that did you? Couldn’t have stopped me at any time?”

“Sure but where’s the fun in that?” 

Draco scowled and Blaise finally dropped his teasing grin. 

“Draco, I’ll level with you. You needed that meltdown. It was the first time you’d displayed a proper feeling since Astoria left. You were all morose and depressing and you bottled everything inside like you always do. You needed to let it out.”

He couldn’t look at the other wizard, irritated at the way he’d managed to cut to the heart of the matter in but a few sentences. He cast his glance around the room, his eyes landing on Granger as she nodded along enthusiastically at something the coordinator said to her. She’d left her curls down again today and would occasionally wind one around her finger as she listened, releasing it to jot something into her planner.

“Consider it out then. And weren’t you and Pansy the ones harping on about me not becoming a shut-in at the Manor?” Draco countered.

“Is that what this is?” Blaise asked in a careful tone. “Just something to occupy your abundance of spare time?”

“As I said before, she asked for my help and I agreed.”

“Hmm, and when she’s married? When she no longer needs your help?”

Draco tore his eyes away from Granger. 

“We’re… friends. We’ve been writing to each other for months now, if you must know.”

“Ah, so it’s not that you weren’t answering owls, just owls that weren’t from Hermione Granger.”

He gave Blaise a withering stare. “Don’t. Don’t infer something that isn’t there.”

“So long as you do the same.” 

Their tense silence lasted until Granger rejoined them with a bright smile. Blaise nodded his head in farewell at the pair. 

“Be seeing you very soon Granger,” he tossed out with a grin and left. 

She turned to Draco with a question on her face. 

“You will actually, he’s your florist.”

Granger chuckled and led the way outside. “Well if he’s as over-the-top with flowers as he is with his wardrobe, I’m sure it will be quite the afternoon.”

They made their way down to the grounds to a cloth-covered table set for two, replete with hors d’oeuvres overlooking an impressive sculpture garden. The white-gloved sommelier demonstrated how to properly taste the notes of each wine he poured for them, Granger interrupting every few minutes with questions about the different regions of Italy and the growing conditions for each varietal. 

Draco, of course, did not need instruction in this area, but went through the motions for Granger’s sake. 

They went back and forth a bit on which white to choose, until Draco ultimately convinced her that the Sauvignon Blanc would pair better with the entrées she’d chosen than the Chardonnay. After recording her official selections for the wedding, the sommelier left him and Granger to polish off their shared favourite: a bottle of a vibrant Sangiovese. 

In the comfortable shared silence, Draco sipped another mouthful and tipped his head back towards the sky. He looked to his left and saw Granger sporting a lazy and contented grin.

This was nice, getting tipsy in the sun with Granger. Perhaps the universe felt like surprising him after all. 

* * *

Hermione reasoned that the amount of wine in their systems could probably accept the blame for their giddiness as they approached the florist. 

She’d not whiled away such a relaxing afternoon in quite some time, her mind able to shut off for a bit and enjoy the pleasant company of Draco, delicious wine, and a decadent charcuterie board. 

If all wedding planning could feel that enjoyable, maybe she could just delay the date and extend this on indefinitely. She let out a low laugh at that insane thought.

“What’s the joke?” asked Draco. 

Hermione didn’t know how to explain it without sounding mad and shook her head instead. “It’s nothing, just…” she looked at him then and let out another, louder laugh. She’d not noticed before, but Draco’s lips were stained a rather purple hue from all the wine and his top row of teeth hadn’t fared much better. 

“Do you trust me?”

“In theory.”

She pulled out her wand and sent a quick tooth whitening charm his way and a concentrated cleansing charm. He placed a hand over his mouth, most likely feeling a tingling sensation. 

“Ah, the consequences of my skin tone strike again.”

Hermione laughed and stowed her wand away. “I couldn’t let you face Blaise with a purple mouth. I have a feeling he wouldn’t let you live it down for a while. I know a breath freshening charm too if you want.”

“You’re awfully concerned with the state of my mouth Granger,” he drawled and gave her a lopsided grin. She told herself to ignore the way his eyes darted to her lips in turn and swatted his arm instead.

“A simple ‘thank you,’ would have sufficed,” she countered primly as Draco held the door to the shop open for her.

Instead of a bustling business, she’d walked into a beautiful greenhouse space, with no personnel in sight, save for one man. 

Hermione found it hard to reconcile the fact that Blaise Zabini stood before her wearing an apron over a green, three-piece suit with his wand in one hand and a pair of garden shears in the other. 

“Welcome friends, it’s been too long!”

By Hermione’s wristwatch roughly three hours had passed since their meeting earlier at the venue and apparently that warranted a wardrobe change for Blaise.

“I thought Draco was only joking but you… own this flower shop too?”

“I own many businesses, Granger,” he said with a self-satisfied smirk. “I’m a man of many interests and talents.”

He led them over to a long table dotted with a staggering number of impressive floral displays and arrangements. “Plus an exclusive and unspoken agreement between Longbottom and myself ensures my shop has access to more exotic plants.”

“What does Neville get out of this agreement?”

“Never you mind about whether I’m able to grease a few palms in the Ministry’s International Trade Department for dear Professor Longbottom’s importing of rare soils and such.” Blaise tipped her a heavy wink that would have normally garnered an eye roll and a snippy admonishment, but the Sangiovese in her bloodstream forced a giggle instead.

“Now!” Blaise clapped his hands together. “Allow me to dazzle you with my flair for floral arrangements!”

As Hermione moved closer to observe the displays, Draco caught her by the elbow, leaned down and whispered in her ear. She met his wicked eyes with a smirk. 

Chin held high, Hermione strolled along the table, paused periodically to sniff a flower here, stroke a leaf there, her eye critical as it roved along each and every bouquet and planter set out for her perusal. 

“Hmm,” she said and tapped her chin. “Is this everything you have prepared for me today?”

Hermione turned with an unimpressed expression to a gobsmacked Blaise. “You can find nothing here to your tastes?”

She sighed and shrugged. “All this talk of exotic plants and flowers, I really expected more of a ‘wow’ factor if I’m being honest.”

“A ‘wow’ factor. I’ll show you a bloody ‘wow’ factor,” he grumbled and rolled up his sleeves. Draco stood behind him and stuffed a fist in his mouth to hide his mirth. 

“All right Granger, what’ll it be?” Blaise flourished his wand and lengths of silk ribbons and lace as well as several different flowers whirled around him. “Sprigs of lavender? Bluebells? Violets? Azaleas? We can dot in some decorative elements too, I suppose.”

“Yes! Let’s do that! I’d like this arrangement to include um… pine cones.”

“Pine cones. For a spring wedding?”

“You heard the bride,” piped up Draco. “Weave in those pine cones, mate.”

And with the mere mention of that completely unnecessary accoutrement, Hermione rendered Blaise into a muttering, sweating wizard. He desperately waved his wand about to acquiesce to her wishes as she threw other suggestions at him at random intervals. 

“Oh and daisies, I simply must have daisies!”

“And marigolds!”

“Actually, not marigolds, I want white roses instead.”

“Or perhaps carnations?”

Overcome with the speed of her requests and apparently a need to please a tricky customer, he lost control of some of the flying elements and a heap of pine cones dropped to the floor and rolled in every direction.

She gave a theatrical gasp. “Did you just drop those? What if this had been at the ceremony and they’d shattered! My wedding could be ruined!” She snuck a glance at Draco and noticed his entire body shook with the effort to keep his laughter silent. 

Blaise threw up his hands in frustration. “They’re pine cones!”

“And what if an elderly relative slipped on one hmm? Are you trying to create a disaster on my wedding day?”

Draco couldn’t hold it any longer.

“All right, down Granger. I think you’ve tortured him enough.”

Hermione and Draco burst into guffaws while Blaise huffed and removed his apron. 

“I’m sorry Blaise, Draco goaded me into it. Of course I’m hiring you. I know nothing of flowers and I’d honestly take any one of the arrangements you presented. I’ll give you full creative control.”

Blaise smoothed the wrinkles out of his suit and banished every pine cone in sight.

“Right, then pull out that cheque book Granger, I don’t come cheap.”

* * *

Every event. Draco had shown to every single wedding planning event on her calendar. Hermione was so accustomed to spending weekends and even some weeknights with him that the Christmas season felt oddly incomplete without his presence. A space in her life that she’d carved out for him suddenly left empty. 

They’d kept up their constant stream of correspondence throughout those few weeks apart in late December and early January. Several times her hand hovered over blank parchment, an invitation to a holiday event or dinner on the tip of her quill that she’d repress each time. 

He seemed to be in good spirits nonetheless as Blaise saw fit to practically move into the Manor for the entirety of the Yuletide season. Hermione hoped that between Blaise’s cheerful presence and her own letters, he’d managed to forget this would have been his first Christmas with a new wife. 

She bounced on her heels and turned her head up and down the street and searched for his familiar tall form. Today he’d assist her with confirming room blocks at their hotel and then they’d select a room for the reception after-party. 

Draco finally appeared, his long stride brisk as he approached her. 

“Sorry,” he puffed out an apology on the cold wind. “Had to finish up some brewing.”

“It’s fine,” she insisted, and swept aside the pesky urge to say she’d missed him. “You’re right on time!” Because he always was. 

“And actually,” he checked his watch, “I can only stay for the first bit. I’ve got a standing engagement at 3, so I’ll have to cut out before then.”

“Oh.”

Her dreams of lingering at the hotel bar over a drink or two, possibly even dinner, dashed. 

He’d been the only reliable person throughout this whole process. Every other friend in Hermione’s life seemed to have priorities beyond that of her wedding, which while understandable, still needled at her every now and then. Ginny would always put her quidditch career first. Harry his Auror duties. Ron his family. Why was she the one saddled with all the work once again? 

The bitterness swelled up, sudden and sharp and ready to sting the nearest bystander. 

“Right, of course you do. Of course you have other plans.” 

“Granger, it’s not like that I—”

She would not cry. She would not. She would instead throw out a petulant burst of frustration she’d allowed to fester for weeks. 

Hermione glared up at him, the only person in the vicinity and so the only one who would bear the brunt of her disappointed rage for the faults and failings of others not present.

“Everyone bailed on me today! Everyone! And now you’re here but you have to _cut out_. Fine, I’ll do it myself, you can just go.”

She made to sweep by him but he caught her by the elbow. 

“Cancel and come with me, I think you’ll like this.”

“But, the hotel—!”

“Was an unnecessary stop anyway, you could handle this all by owl. Come on, I’ve never brought anyone else along before.”

That piqued her interest. 

Draco held out his arm for Side-Along Apparition and the next moment she stood behind a suburban hedgerow. 

He led the way down a street with rows of neat houses with tidy front lawns and a car in every driveway. A Muggle neighbourhood.

But not just any Muggle neighbourhood.

“Hang on… I know this street. I know where we are. We’re in—” 

“Little Whinging, yes.”

Draco marched determinedly towards a cozy-looking home with two cats lazing on the front stoop. 

“Draco… what is this? Why are we here?”

He paused, and while he’d previously seemed keen to have her company, now Draco seemed unsure. 

“You’re familiar with Mrs. Figg, yes?”

“Arabella Figg? Order of the Phoenix member Arabella Figg?”

Draco nodded in confirmation as Hermione’s mind buzzed with dozens of questions about what possible reason he could have for visiting an elderly Squib who lived down the road from Harry’s Muggle relatives.

“I’ve never met her. I know who she is, obviously, but how do _you_ know her?”

He shifted from one foot to the other and appeared torn on how to answer.

“I stop by once a month with a special potion for her. It’s… it’s one I invented for lasting effects from prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. Mrs. Figg already had pre-existing arthritis but the curse can cause and exacerbate joint pain. My mother gets them too, the joint pains. And me. It’s awful in the winters.”

He made to approach the front door but Hermione laid a hand on his arm.

“Does Harry know?”

“No,” Draco clipped. “And you probably shouldn’t tell him.”

Hermione dropped her hand. “Why not?”

“Aside from the fact that Mrs. Figg swore me to secrecy years ago? You know Potter better than almost anyone. How do you think he would feel if I told him someone else had been tortured to get to him?”

Hermione frowned. “I don’t like keeping things from him.”

“Even if it’d spare him a bit of guilt?”

“And that’s something that concerns you is it? Why Draco, I had no idea you cared so much for Harry!”

He looked horrified. She stalked past him with a satisfied smirk. “Are you coming? You’ll have to introduce me, you know.”

He scrambled to catch up but when he knocked on the door Hermione whispered, “I won’t tell anyone.” Out of the corner of her eye his head bobbed in gratitude.

The door swung open to reveal the friendly, wrinkled face of a tiny, stooped woman. 

“Hello dear, you’re a bit early so the tea’s not yet ready and—oh! You’ve brought a friend!”

“Yes, Mrs. Figg I’d like you to meet—”

“Please boy, I know who Miss Granger is, I’m not yet senile. Well come in then, no use standing in the cold.”

Hermione stifled a giggle and followed Draco and the prattling Mrs. Figg into her sitting room. 

“…and Reuben got into the rubbish bins again, the sneak. Came in smelling to high heaven you wouldn’t believe, thought he’d had another adventure down the sewer drain, but thank Merlin it seems he just found a particularly nasty bit of filth to coat himself in this time—Mitzi and the rest wouldn’t go near him for a week—and then Mr. Tibbles needs another tooth pulled and Godric, if you think he whines now, just you wait until I’ve got to coax him into his basket for another trip to the vet—Swish has been making cow eyes at the tom-cat down the street so come spring I think we’re looking at another batch of kittens—do let me know if your mother would be interested, I’ll put up flyers around the neighbourhood and I imagine they’ll go fast, but I’d let her have first pick, of course—”

Draco nodded and smiled in all the right places as Mrs. Figg gave him all the relevant updates on her large herd of cats. He hung up his and Hermione’s coats and removed a vial from his pocket. 

“Oh no boy, you’re not getting off easy just because we have an audience. The potion can wait a bit,” she turned to Hermione with a cheeky grin. “Thinks he has to play the stern healer just because you’re here, I s’pose, but he should know by now I’ll not do a thing he says until he updates me on the latest.”

“And you should know by now I’ve not once given in to your childish behaviour and simply because Granger is here does not mean I’ll be bullied this time. Potion first, salacious gossip after.”

Mrs. Figg huffed, but Hermione sensed the older woman revelled in his teasing. She was then treated to a first-hand view of Draco’s bedside manner as a potioneer. He guided Mrs. Figg to a chintz armchair, gently tipped her head back and poured the liquid in a slow and even stream down her throat, letting her take breaks as needed. She coughed on the last pour, some of the potion spilling to her chin, but Draco deftly conjured a cloth and quickly wiped it away. 

Mrs. Figg rubbed her throat and chest and smiled weakly up at him. 

“Fetch the tea and there’s leftover cake if you like, otherwise just bring out the chocolate biscuits,” she rasped.

Hermione settled back on the cushion of the two-seater and held her hand down to a small ginger tabby eyeing her warily. 

“Nice of you to visit today too, dear. He only ever comes alone. Lovely to see him with a friend.”

Hermione beamed. “I’m honoured to have been invited along. He’s been such a big help to me lately with my wedding planning.”

“Oh… you’re getting married?”

“Yes to Ron Weasley. In about four months.”

Hermione gave up trying to coax the cat over. It then sauntered closer to her but stopped a few feet away and sat perfectly still and regarded Hermione with a distinct air of suspicion.

Draco returned levitating a tea tray and the little cat’s head whipped in his direction. It watched his every move as Draco prepared Mrs. Figg’s cup with a few spoonfuls of honey and then a cup for her (one lump) and one for him (two lumps). 

He folded his tall form as elegantly as he could manage onto the worn cushion next to her and the moment he’d leaned back the little cat made her move. She leapt onto him and curled into a contented ball of purrs, looking comically small nestled on his lap.

Mrs. Figg snorted at the adorable sight. 

“Little traitor, that one. You’d think she’d spare a cuddle every now and then for the hand that feeds her but no. All this one had to do was plant his bum on the sofa and she climbs right into his lap.”

“I hardly think Jezebel appreciates such slander,” Draco countered, one of his large hands automatically falling to stroke her fur. 

“You’ve kept me waiting long enough,” chided Mrs. Figg and with that, she peppered Draco with questions about Blaise and his various girlfriends and parade of one-night stands, Pansy’s arguments with her parents, some pureblood socialite’s extramarital scandal, and the various ins and outs of Narcissa’s glamorous social circle. 

Mrs. Figg eventually interrogated Hermione as well, wanting to know how Harry fared in married life and whether she thought Ginny might be pregnant soon. 

While Hermione talked through some of her own wedding details, Mrs. Figg’s eyelids grew heavier and then the tea cup rattled in the saucer as her grip slipped. Jezebel jumped from his lap as Draco darted across the room before she slumped forward. Her wrinkled, frail hands fell on his forearms for support. 

“Are you going to make a fuss this time?”

Mrs. Figg wheezed a weak yet indignant huff. “If you insist on this needless chivalry.”

“I do, unless you’d rather I levitate you?”

“Don’t you dare float me down that hall young man or I’ll box your ears.”

Draco barked a laugh then tugged her gently towards him so he could bend and then lifted her up into his arms as easily as if she were a doll.

“Lovely meeting you, dear. You’re welcome any time, with or without this meddlesome thing,” Mrs. Figg tossed to Hermione in farewell. 

As Draco turned and carried her away bridal-style down the hall, the older woman met Hermione’s eye over Draco’s broad shoulder and threw her a sly wink.

Hermione chuckled as she heard Mrs. Figg continue her protests all the way to her bedroom. 

When they’d seen themselves out, and ensured Jezebel hadn’t tucked herself away in Draco’s coat, he turned to Hermione with an explanation. 

“She tries to hide it, but walking even that far is difficult once the potion takes full effect. Drowsiness always sets in at about the 30-minute mark.”

“That’s sweet, that you do that for her. I think she secretly enjoys being in your arms,” she teased.

He shrugged and a light flush bloomed on his face. “She’s on her own, you know, no husband to do it for her so I guess… yeah.” 

Draco glanced away and Hermione squeezed his upper arm.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul how secretly romantic you are, daydreaming of carrying your future arthritic wife around your gigantic manor.”

He rolled his eyes and they meandered at a slow pace back towards a safe apparition point. 

Though she’d contained her curiosity earlier, Hermione’s question couldn’t be prevented from leaving her mouth this time.

“Earlier you said… you said Mrs. Figg was tortured for information on Harry. How did you know that?”

Draco gave a hollow laugh. “You always were too clever by half,” he muttered. He came to a stop under a street light, the lamp above casting an eerie glow on his white-blond hair. 

“I… I was part of the group sent here by the Dark Lord to interrogate her. I had to… had to do it. Turn my wand on her,” he let out a long exhale. “She’s tough, but I could tell… only a few more rounds and she wouldn’t have lasted.”

He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and stared at the ground. “I’d been on the receiving end enough times of that curse and I knew exactly the type of lingering pain she’d have in the months and years following. A few years ago, once I’d finished self-testing, I thought I’d drop off a vial, if she wanted it. It was the least I could do, don’t you think?”

“And she invited you in and let you give her a potion? Just like that?”

“Oh Merlin no!” He chuckled at the memory. “Made me taste it in front of her first, swear up and down on my mother’s life it wasn’t some scam, and not until Mr. Tibbles offered me his belly to pet did she let me treat her. Turns out the chain apothecary couldn’t compete with me here either, in both efficacy and cost. Those pain potions fetch a pretty Galleon and I think she skipped doses to save gold.”

Hermione squashed the urge to engulf him in a fierce hug. Instead, another question, definitely an invasive one, burst out of her. 

“Did you ever tell Astoria?”

Draco’s head jerked up, but he seemed introspective instead of offended. 

“No. Astoria… she came to resent my time spent in my potions lab. It never interested her so I stopped bringing it up.”

They resumed walking again and Hermione tamped down both the stream of praise for his actions and the commentary of distaste she longed to voice about his ex-fiancée.

“So,” said Hermione brightly. “You’ll bring me next time too, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! Kudos/comments make my day! The next chapter will be up on November 7.
> 
> This fic doesn’t happen without the wonderful mrsbutlertron (popsiclememories on tumblr). Thank you for your alphabet talents and friendship <3
> 
> Come hang out with me on tumblr: [@heyjude19-writing](https://heyjude19-writing.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione studied the slip of parchment once more, double-checking she had the correct address. She had no idea what to expect from a world-renowned waltzing instructor. In hindsight, she probably should have given Draco more details about her plans for the first dance because this felt rather overboard for the simple moment she had in mind.

Today would be just her and Draco, but this time on purpose. She wanted to surprise Ron in this one aspect of the wedding, by showing him she could in fact dance without tripping over her own feet. Though, at this rate, almost everything about the wedding would be a surprise to Ron.

Hermione cringed at the unkind thought, especially as it had been the genesis of their argument that very morning.

It started like any other morning in their flat. She asked him for an opinion (this time it happened to be on the order of the bridal party procession) and he’d shrugged in that nonplussed way of his and Hermione had bristled at his apathy and snapped at him. He’d frowned and accused her of getting worked up over something silly. She’d huffed and accused him of burdening her with every task he couldn’t be bothered with. He’d argued back that she should be a bit more understanding as he wasn’t off drinking in pubs, but just trying to keep his brother afloat. She’d gone quiet, offered an apology and he’d offered one too.

They’d parted on amicable, yet slightly stilted terms. They’d meet up later and share a quiet dinner and their rundowns of their respective days and Hermione would brush away uncomfortable thoughts that this stage of life—their engagement—felt closer to obligatory than celebratory.

Shaking off melancholy thoughts of the strained atmosphere at home, she squared her shoulders and entered the imposing building. She would absorb every tip this dancing instructor could impart and emerge from this lesson graceful and light on her feet and impress Ron and everything would be fine.

Hermione found Draco chatting quietly with a spry-looking older wizard wielding an ornate walking stick, though Hermione suspected the accessory was just for show based on his posture.

Draco grinned when he spotted her and after the unpleasant morning she’d had, his genuine delight at her presence lifted her spirits.

“Monsieur Marcel, this is your pupil today, Miss Hermione Granger. Granger, this is Monsieur Marcel.”

She saw it immediately. The tensing of gnarled hands on the top of the cane. The tightening at the corners of his thin-lipped mouth. The coldness of his stare as it switched from Draco to her.

And poor Draco still stood there with his breathtaking smile. Because until this moment, how could he have known? He would never know how to read such body language, how to interpret the silent signals of disdain; these little giveaways and tells Hermione had been trained to see from the time she’d learned her place in the blood hierarchy of the magical world.

Which was why it came as no surprise when Monsieur Marcel pursed his lips and tossed a “pleasure,” in her direction by way of greeting. Hermione knew by now that attempting to offer her hand to such a wizard would be futile. She instead offered a demure, “Thank you for agreeing to instruct me today.”

Draco looked between them with a small frown. His confusion was momentary and he instead ploughed on with a jovial air.

“I thought Miss Granger might benefit from a lesson in something simple for her wedding. Perhaps a standard waltz or foxtrot depending on her music choice?”

Hermione wondered how long until the older man cracked. Which form would his distaste take? Would he be the type to hold it in with Draco present? Would his bigotry be passive aggressive or overt?

“Of course,” clipped the instructor. “Which piece has she selected?”

Ah, so this would be his chosen tactic. He’d only address Draco and pretend Hermione simply did not exist in the same room.

Draco sported another puzzled frown and flicked his eyes towards Hermione.

“You said something classical last we spoke, isn’t that right Granger?”

Hermione knew her next sentence would most likely be the breaking point. As she looked into Draco’s earnest grey eyes, part of her wanted to protect him from the inevitable fallout. She didn’t want to witness the cascade of guilt as he realised he’d unwittingly instigated a culture clash through no fault of his own. Their vastly different upbringings had resulted in an almost comical misunderstanding of what a first dance at a wedding entailed.

“Not classical,” Hermione clarified. “A classic. It’s a classic Muggle song.” She turned and levelled her gaze at Monsieur Marcel. “Will that be a problem?”

A curled lip and a flared nostril told Hermione it would very much be a problem for this crotchety old snob. One who’d probably only ever taught the most elite of pureblood families how to swan about a ballroom to full orchestras.

“Mr. Malfoy, might I have a word?”

Hermione smirked. Though disappointed her initial instincts had been correct, she knew the venerated Monsieur was about to reveal himself.

Draco, on the other hand, did not disappoint her. He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.

“And I’ll echo the lady’s question: is there a problem? I brought Miss Granger to learn from the best. I hardly think teaching a simple waltz to a novice is beyond your skill?” He said it with an arched brow. The sneer would only be deployed should the situation escalate.

“Pardon my assumption Mr. Malfoy, but when you contacted me for another lesson I had thought I’d be teaching you and the lovely Miss Greengrass again.”

Now he released the sneer.

“The _lovely_ Miss Greengrass and I dissolved our engagement quite some time ago. Now I’ll ask you again: is there a problem with Miss Granger’s choice of music or will I be taking my Galleons elsewhere today?”

“Mr. Malfoy,” huffed Marcel. “How can you expect me to teach to such—such—undignified and uncultured noise? Filthy Muggle music! In this hallowed hall! Such outrageousness has never occurred and I hardly think—”

“Enough.” Draco spat. He towered over the shorter man with an imposing glare. “I think you’ll find your client list a bit… lacking over the coming weeks and months. My mother still keeps her regular ladies’ luncheons, you know, all those old, wealthy families still seeking recommendations from her. I don’t think you’ll find your name spilling past her lips any time soon. In a positive light anyway.”

He took a step back and stood at Hermione’s side.

“Come along Granger, I’ve already got another instructor in mind for you.”

And with that parting shot, he placed a hand on her lower back and guided her out of the studio.

They didn’t speak at all until they were more than a block away.

“Er… so do you?” she asked him, breaking the tense silence.

He stopped walking and stared down at her.

“Do I what?”

“Already have another instructor in mind?”

“Oh that!” he barked a laugh. “No that was all bluster. I meant myself.”

“Oh.”

“If that’s all right?” He seemed nervous now and the earlier look of guilt she’d predicted crept along his face. “It’s the least I can do Granger, I didn’t realise he’d be… that way.”

“Of course it’s fine,” she replied. “I should have clarified from the outset that the reception would mostly be Muggle music. Ron and I aren’t exactly the waltzing type of couple.”

“Right and I don’t only waltz, you know, but it’s generally the traditional first dance in my world.”

They stood staring at one another.

“So um, could you teach me now? Since we were supposed to be at the lesson anyway?”

Draco glanced up and down the street and shrugged.

“Do you have a free dance studio available in that beaded bag of yours that definitely does not have an illegal Undetectable Extension Charm cast upon it?”

She gave him a withering glare and opted to ignore his accusation of the dubious nature of her favourite accessory.

“We could go to my flat. We have a rather spacious living room and hardwood floors. And Ron’s not home.”

Why had she added that last bit? Oh right, because this was meant to be a surprise. For her fiancé.

Would this be weird? Awkward? The two of them alone in her flat? Surely not, Hermione reasoned, since Draco was her friend. She’d been alone in her flat with Harry many, many times. Before she could reflect on why this felt different, Draco grinned and offered his arm for Side-Along Apparition.

* * *

They appeared the next instant in her front hall.

“Welcome,” Hermione offered and dropped her grip from his arm immediately. She brushed past him and led the way further into her home, ignoring her jumping pulse as she heard the click of his expensive shoes following close behind her.

“I think the sitting room will work,” she announced as they came upon the large room. She gestured for Draco to stand off to one side while she raised her wand and floated the coffee table and area rug out of the way and then shifted the sofa and side tables back along another wall.

“There!” she said with a triumphant smile. “It’s no ‘hallowed hall’ but I think it will suit our needs.”

Draco chuckled and she experienced that curious, warm sensation again. His laugh was a deep, resonant sound, almost musical in the way it vibrated from his chest and issued from his mouth. It always struck her as rather beautiful whenever she managed to inspire it from him.

“Right,” he clipped, stepping towards her. “Obviously I’m no expert, but I’ve been taught the basics. Mother insisted on lessons from an obscenely young age.”

He stepped closer.

“Er, if you want to… come here?”

Hermione swept her hair back and obeyed, moving into his personal space until they stood toe to toe.

“Posture first,” he murmured. He already stood tall and straight so Hermione stiffened her spine, set her shoulders back and raised her chin.

“Not too rigid,” he advised softly. “You’ll want fluid movements in your limbs.”

He reached down and took her hand to place it on his shoulder. “Weasley and I are about the same height, so this shouldn’t feel too different.”

Then why does it? Her mind asked, unbidden.

Draco placed a firm hand at her waist and she desperately hoped he hadn’t noticed the way her lungs sucked in a harsh breath. He progressed as if he hadn’t, and took her other hand in his to hold them aloft.

“Your starting position,” he explained. “All right so far?”

“Yes,” she replied. Why had her voice quavered?

His light eyes, with their peculiar silvery hue, met hers and while undecipherable, exuded an intensity; a blazing burn on the heels of a sharp chill.

Neither spoke for almost a full minute. She dragged in air and exhaled. Mere inches from her, Draco did the same.

He blinked rapidly, pale eyelashes fluttering.

“And then we’ll begin to—actually hang on, I’ve no idea about your music.”

“Oh! Right. Here, I’ll play it for you.”

She stepped out of his hold and turned away to rummage through her rack of CDs, and also to hide the flaming state of her face.

Hermione cleared her throat. “As I mentioned before, this is a classic love song in the Muggle world and actually—” she let out a fond laugh, “it was my parents’ wedding song too.”

She hit “play” and then hugged her arms around her middle as the familiar sounds of “Till There Was You” filled the sitting room. Not only one of her favourite songs, but something that captured some of her happiest memories of her absent parents. Her father, a Beatles enthusiast, and her mother, an avid “Music Man” fan, and Hermione adored that this song represented them in one perfect, melodic package.

She couldn’t look at Draco, unsure of his opinion of Muggle music, but knew he patiently listened to the whole track. Hermione tried not to feel self-conscious in his silence.

She stood mere feet away from an attractive gentleman, one who’d held her confidently in his arms near moments ago. She’d be returning to that intimate position in just a few minutes. And was that wise?

Hermione considered herself a highly logical person. Was it wise to eagerly anticipate his touch again? Was it wise to admire how he looked today? A collared shirt and smart trousers that he’d probably label as “casual” but still looked rather refined on him. Was it wise to note that he carried a very pleasing scent of peppermint and cloves? A scent that inspired insane thoughts like burrowing her face into his chest and inhaling?

“Right, I’ve got the tempo,” Draco said and Hermione realised the song had ended. “Do you think Weasley will be fine to keep up with you?”

“Ron’s actually a very capable dancer,” Hermione insisted. “Shocking, I know, but my dancing skills have always left something to be desired.”

Draco resumed his dancing posture and Hermione set the CD player to “repeat” then entered back into his hold. Had he pulled her closer than before?

“I’ll just make sure your footwork isn’t abominable, we’ll do some basic turns and then a simple dip.”

“A dip?”

“Afraid of falling Granger? I promise not to drop you unless you annoy me.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Nice-smelling or not, the man could still be the world’s greatest prat. Draco counted them in and then before Hermione knew what was happening they glided around the room. She stumbled here and there in their first turn and instead of laughing at her or sighing in exasperation, Draco brought them to a brief halt and kindly corrected her form.

Two more passes through the song and Hermione found she didn’t have to think so hard about where her feet needed to go next. Another go and she hadn’t tripped once, nor did she feel the urge to constantly look down at her shoes. She began to feel confident in her ability to handle both the dance steps and turns from one end of the floor to the other. He’d yet to dip her and Hermione suspected he’d been teasing her with that earlier threat.

Eventually, Draco voiced his approval. “You’ve really picked it up quickly. I think it was merely a matter of confidence for you.”

They swayed together lightly as the song automatically started again and they kept up their gentle rhythm through the opening bars of the song.

Draco’s brows furrowed and he nodded his head towards the CD player.

“What do those first few lyrics mean? ‘There were bells on a hill, but I never heard them ringing.’ Bit of an odd turn of phrase, don’t you think?”

“No,” she said with a small smile. “It makes perfect sense as a metaphor. The singer, he… he’s never experienced the same wonders that other people have until he fell in love and now, suddenly, he can understand what everyone was always going on about. Now he’s found the one person who makes his every sense come alive. He’s never appreciated the beauty all around him, like the simple sound of bells ringing melodically, until now. Because that’s—”

She cut herself off abruptly, mindful of her tendency to ramble, but Draco only nodded in polite encouragement for her to continue her thought.

“That’s love, isn’t it? It’s all these wonderful moments of discovery and newness but it’s also appreciating what might have been there all along. And it’s… it’s…”

“It’s bells on a hill,” he supplied quietly. She thought he might mock her or think her silly, but he’d uttered the reply in a sincere and measured tone.

“Yes. Bells on a hill,” she repeated. They danced in silence for a few moments before Hermione was overcome with curiosity.

“Draco… what did you love most about Astoria?”

He stared at the wall behind her head for a few beats.

“I… I’m not sure that I did love her. I think I was in love with the idea of someone… of someone loving me. I could overlook a lot for that. When you don’t think you deserve anything from anyone… it’s dangerous.” Hermione felt his fingers flex in her hand and squeezed once to urge him on. 

“You’ll accept any scraps someone throws your way,” he continued. “She was in love with my surname and what that could do for her. And when she realised I no longer held the same regard for my name as I once did, and that I no longer held the type of political ambitions my father had for me… she lost interest.”

“I’m sorry Draco,” Hermione offered. “How do you feel about her now?”

“I hope she fucking chokes.”

Hermione gasped in shock, ready to deliver a scolding but Draco laughed.

“Sorry, that’s hyperbolic, obviously,” he corrected himself. “Looking back, all the signs were there but I was so messed up I didn’t recognise that she knew the power she held over me. A kind word here, a lingering touch there… a sweet smile or a laugh every now and again and I was a goner. She dangled affection and intimacy, physical and verbal, over my head and I bent to her every demand. But… but I started to… be more myself, I suppose. Less of who I thought she wanted me to be. And I thought that was good, you know? Showing the person you wanted to spend your life with the real you, your true self.”

“And what kind of person is your… true self?”

He let out a rushing exhale. “I hate galas. I hate polite chit chat. I would never, ever work for the Ministry. I’m happiest when I’m delivering my potion to Mrs. Figg or when I’m brewing and innovating and the concoction comes out just right. I don’t want to spend my weekends hosting dignitaries or political appointees for grand dinners. I’d rather just go flying or read, or spend time with you.”

Draco stopped moving then. She did too.

“May I?”

“May you what?”

“Dip you.”

“Oh… um…”

_Yes, please. Please do._

“Weasley probably will.”

“Sorry?”

“He’ll most likely dip you, at the end of your first dance.”

“All right then.”

His large hand slid to her lower back, holding her firmly in place. Leaning into the supplied support of Draco’s arms, she felt secure enough and allowed her body to relax as he lowered her briefly towards the ground then quickly tugged her back upright with a boyish grin.

“See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

Hermione couldn’t find the words to tell Draco that she didn’t fear the action of being dipped. She should not be dancing this close to a man who was not her fiancé alone in her apartment. And she most surely should not be enjoying it this much.

A suggestion slipped past her lips before she could summon any sort of desire to stop it.

“Maybe we should go through it one more time? Just to be sure I’ve got it.”

Draco didn’t dip her this time, but the sensation of falling occurred anyway.

* * *

Draco paced along the cobblestones in front of _Sucre_.

He should not have done it. He should not have dipped her. A selfish request because of course he was incapable of being anything else and she’d graciously complied because of course she was incapable of being anything else.

He knew Weasley probably wouldn’t dip her. He’d be far too skittish, most likely. But gods if Granger hadn’t felt so right in his arms. Draco argued and reasoned and pleaded with his own mind that he’d only felt a spectacular thrill because he’d not held a woman since Astoria. But his mind countered with logic, as it was wont to do, that Draco would not have felt such a thrill if his dancing partner had been Pansy or Daphne or Ginny.

Astoria never would have let Draco dip her. No, they’d planned for and practiced a stiff waltz, hardly closer than if he danced with his own mother. It would have been far too undignified and frivolous.

Granger, he imagined, would titter out a breathless laugh and clutch his shoulders, slightly afraid of being off balance but delighted at the adrenaline rush. He abruptly put an end to the fantasy scenario of dancing with Granger in all her bridal finery instead of in the middle of her living room as a group of people approached.

“Hello Draco, dear.” “Hello again Mrs. Weasley.”

“Malfoy.” “Weasley.”

“Malfoy.” “Potter.”

“Your highness.”

“Ginny!” admonished her mother. “No need to be childish.”

As Ginny walked by, Draco murmured “Serf,” out of the corner of his mouth.

Granger trailed a step behind her friends.

“Hi Draco.” “Hello Granger.”

Their movements around each other were stilted, tentative. He held the door and Granger scooted past, careful not to even brush him as she caught up with her fiancé and friends.

They’d entered the cleared out bakery, pristine in all its pastel decorative glory and smelling deliciously of fresh-baked confections.

“My gods, that patisserie display is just gorgeous,” sighed Ginny as she peered into the glass case at the rows upon rows of sumptuous treats.

“Oh sure, she’s a marvel at all the fancy stuff, but what you really want her to make you is scones. Blueberry if you can get them,” insisted Draco.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, darling,” trilled a voice from behind them. The group whirled around collectively to find a witch in bubblegum pink robes with a sharp black bob standing in the doorway to the kitchens.

Pansy approached the assembled party confidently, but Draco clocked her small nervous tell as she smoothed down her wrinkle-less robes. He tried to offer an encouraging smile, hoping his old friend would know that Draco would never put her in an uncomfortable situation. He trusted the gathered Weasleys and Potters to behave like adults and show Pansy the same forgiving cordiality they’d bestowed upon him as of late.

“Draco,” she said with a slight frown, but pecked his cheek all the same.

“Weasley, Granger.” She approached the engaged couple first. “I’m honoured you’d choose my bakery for your wedding. I look forward to working with you,” she said briskly and gave a firm handshake to each. Draco was relieved to see both Weasley and Granger return the social gesture with nothing but kindness on their faces.

“Draco never mentioned you were the owner, Pansy,” Hermione said with a mischievous smile.

“Yes, well, the list of things Draco never mentions does seem ever-growing by the minute,” replied Pansy drolly and offered handshakes and pleasantries to the rest of the group.

Pansy went into business mode then, settling everyone around a table and waving over a squat little witch in an apron.

“This is my head pastry chef, Elena,” she announced. “She’s prepared the samples for you today and will also bake your selection for the wedding.” Pansy paused here and conjured a quill and parchment.

“Now, Granger, Weasley. Elena baked an array of our best-sellers and classic flavour combinations. But if there’s a specific base, filling, and icing type you’d like put together, I’ll leave you with a list and—”

Draco tuned out Pansy’s tasting spiel and glanced across the table at Granger. She’d clipped her hair back today and Draco wondered how it could possibly be comfortable to have that much hair so tightly contained. Weasley had his arm draped casually behind her chair but Granger sat poised on the edge of her chair, intently listening to Pansy.

A slice of cake plopped in front of him, interrupting his covert gazing, and he turned to see the quizzical arched brow of Pansy before she swiftly moved down the table to serve the rest.

Potter and Ginny fed each other a sample and Draco caught Molly in an eye roll and a fondly exasperated shake of her head. Draco snuck a glance across the way again, praying he wouldn’t see Granger and Weasley implicated in such a public display of affection.

Fortunately, this couple only took measured bites of the pieces in front of them, then bent their heads together to compare notes. Draco couldn’t help but notice that Weasley looked rather tired, dark circles under his eyes. He well remembered the red-head’s penchant for stuffing his face in the Great Hall during any and every meal and marvelled at the lack of his usual enthusiasm for eating.

Granger cut her fork through another slice and raspberry filling oozed onto her plate. She looked up at Draco with an amused grin.

“Draco, you know what this reminds me of?” She gestured with her fork at the gushing fruit jam. “Remember the other day when you wrote to me about using the chilled salamander blood in the Hiccoughing Solution. I think chilling it before addition would be a mistake.”

“Oh. Obviously I’d have to test it, but would that affect the amount added in?”

“Not necessarily. You’d have to play with amounts of course, and actually a good counter ingredient is powdered walrus tusk if you think it needs tempering.”

“My concern stems more from consistency, though. Wouldn’t it dilute more when simmering?”

“Possibly, but I think with the right amount of stirs you could counteract that. You’re so meticulous in your brewing I’m sure you’d handle it just fine.”

“Yes, but I’d need to adjust the flames as well, I think temperature will play a big part and I’m not sure I’m up for all that multitasking mid-brew.”

“Draco, stop doubting your skills, you’re really very talented.”

He was sure his face was now as red as that raspberry filling as she beamed at him. Someone coughed and Draco jumped, noting Granger did the same. Somehow this witch could make him forget that anyone else existed, even when in a large group.

“Granger, Weasley, any preferences yet? I’ll leave you to chat with Elena,” Pansy chirped, breaking the awkward silence left in the wake of Draco and Granger’s illuminating and apparently, far too entertaining discussion.

“Draco, could you come through to the kitchens with me for a minute? I received a recent order from your mother for one of her upcoming luncheons and I’d like to run some ideas by you.”

Pansy didn’t bother to wait for his agreement, tugging him out of his chair with surprising strength and pulling him through the double doors and into the privacy of her kitchen.

They weren’t alone, however. Blaise lurked in a chair in the corner of the spacious kitchen; long legs extended out and arms behind his head as he reclined in his sunshine yellow robes.

Unlike his surprise appearance at the wedding venue, Draco knew exactly why Blaise was here. Whether Pansy actually took his incessant flirting seriously remained to be seen.

Draco cast a hasty Silencing Charm on the room.

“Well?” he rounded on her. “Would you care to explain why you unceremoniously dragged me away from the table for a completely fabricated reason?”

Pansy pursed her lips and glared right back.

“If you could have heard and seen you and Granger carrying on like the insufferable swots you both are, you would be thanking me. I did have another reason, though.”

With that cryptic comment, she swept past Draco towards a steel door and disappeared inside.

Draco turned to his other bothersome friend.

“Have you successfully wooed Pansy or has her restraining order not gone through yet?”

Blaise smirked. “I’m merely paying her a social visit,” he said in a carrying voice. “With the added benefit of ogling her pert little arse when she bends over to take things out of the oven.”

“Git!” Pansy called back.

Draco chortled and wondered which of them would be the first to admit the constant and overt flirting was a rather flimsy cover for genuine affection. He already had quite the speech prepared for the inevitable eventuality of their nuptials.

Pansy’s voice rang out again. “I’ve got a surprise for you, Draco.”

Out of the walk-in ice-box, she emerged with a gaudy, three-tiered wedding cake trimmed with pastel pink icing and adorned with an obscene amount of sugar flowers hovering in front of her.

Pansy floated the cake onto the long prep table that spanned most of the length of the kitchen.

“Your wedding cake,” she stated, coming to stand next to him.

Draco stared at this looming dessert, unsure of how he should feel. Relieved he’d never gone through with the doomed marriage? Angry at the way another person who’d claimed to love him could so callously toss him aside? Terrified that he’d never find someone who accepted him? Despondent that there was a woman one room over who made him feel all sorts of things he’d never experienced before?

“Why did you bake a cake for a cancelled wedding? And why was it stored away for months?”

Pansy grinned and tipped her head towards it. “Smash it.”

“Pardon?”

“Go on. Smash it.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I think you should smash this stupid, overly complicated, frilly, decadent, sugary representation of that selfish cow.”

“Pansy, I can’t, this is—”

“Fine then,” she said crisply. Before he could throw up a proper Shield Charm, Pansy put her fist through the top layer of the cake, came away with a handful of frosting and sponge, and smushed it into the side of Draco’s head.

Draco stood there, dripping in icing and sugar and fudge filling all over his robes while Blaise howled in laughter. Pansy tittered a nervous giggle as she stepped back a safe distance, looking shocked that she’d actually gone through with such an outrageous and immature act.

“Think that’s funny, witch?”

Draco plunged his own hand into the bottom tier and flung a glop of it at Pansy, hitting her square in the chest.

She looked down at her soiled robes and sputtered in disbelief. “Why you little—!”

She lunged for the cake and before Draco could dodge she’d chucked a sizeable amount of buttercream flowers at his midriff.

All hell broke loose after that. They’d taken battle positions on opposite sides of the table, darting their arms out to seize more cake and fling it at their adversary before ducking down quickly to avoid another assault of sponge and frosting.

Blaise leaned back in his chair and cast both a Shield Charm and Bubblehead Charm for good measure, grinning as flying pieces and crumbs bounced off his impenetrable force field.

Pansy gasped and screamed whenever he managed to land a hit, Blaise alternately jeered or cheered as he egged them both on, and Draco reached a level of catharsis he’d previously never known as he engaged in an ridiculously undignified food fight with one of his oldest friends.

And when the once grand cake had been rendered a messy ruin upon the table, floor, ceiling, walls, and the robes of Draco and Pansy, they called a truce and slumped against the counter, breathless with laughter.

“I hated that stupid cake,” Pansy declared, chest heaving. “And I hated that bratty witch and I hated what she did to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco panted. “I know I wasn’t a good friend to you when I was with her.”

“No, Draco, it wasn’t about me or us,” She turned to face him and laid a hand on his arm.

“Astoria made you want to hide who you are. She dulled you down in order to try to build you up into something not at all you. And I know that I may not like whomever you eventually marry, but so long as they treat you right, I won’t care.”

Pansy straightened her robes and in a few flicks of her wand cleaned herself, Draco, and the kitchen-wide disaster they’d created.

She turned towards Draco suddenly with a searching look.

“Granger looks good.”

He hummed neutrally in response, confused by the abrupt change in topic.

“You know how else she looks? Engaged.”

Draco snapped his head up, a biting retort on the tip of his tongue, but Pansy held up a placating hand.

“You were blind to Astoria. You were blinded by your need to love someone. You never saw her, not really. And now you’re doing it again with Granger.”

Draco’s pulse quickened. “How do you mean?”

“You’ve got that same blindness going on, but this time you’re blind to the fact that she looks at you the same way. Tread carefully, friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading and for any kudos/comments! I owe a lot to my lovely friend/alpha/beta mrsbutlertron (@popsiclememories on tumblr) for her very kind assistance with this story. 
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr: [@heyjude19-writing](https://heyjude19-writing.tumblr.com/).


	5. Chapter 5

Had Ginny really just asked her that? Why and how was this up for discussion at all?

Hermione opened and closed her mouth a few times at Ginny’s impertinent question. But before she could form a proper reaction, a knock sounded on the door.

Hermione shot Ginny one more incredulous look before answering it and found Draco on the other side.

“Granger, you forgot your jacket.”

“Oh! Thank you!” Hermione blushed, both at the suddenness of his presence and at the embarrassment at having left something at the venue.

They’d just returned from her final walk-through of the reception hall at the estate, Hermione making selections on guest table placement, place settings, and dance floor size. With the wedding three weeks away, everything started to feel very much “final.”

“How thoughtful of you,” commented Ginny from the table.

Draco handed Hermione the garment with a shy smile. “It was no trouble.”

They stared at each other for a beat.

“Did you want to stay for tea? Ginny and I were just discussing—”

She then remembered the ridiculous topic of discussion and clamped her mouth shut in mortification.

Draco raised a brow at her expectantly but Ginny piped up instead.

“Wait, let’s get Malfoy’s opinion here.”

Hermione whirled around and glared at her friend. “Or, maybe we don’t!”

Ginny approached and ploughed on as if Hermione hadn’t spoken. “We were debating wedding kisses. I say it’s okay for it to be an open mouth kiss.”

Draco froze, clearly unsure of how to respond. Annoyed with Ginny’s lack of boundaries, but wanting her argument heard, Hermione chimed in with her feelings.

“And I say absolutely not, this is the type of occasion where people dress up. They’re not attending just to watch us snog.”

Ginny turned to her with a frown. “So what… you just give each other this dry, tight-lipped peck?”

Hermione returned the frown. “No just not… an indecent amount of tongue. Tasteful tongue. Appropriate for a Ministry-officiated wedding. Ministry-tongue.”

“Ministry-tongue,” repeated Ginny blankly. “What… does that mean?”

Hermione blushed and shrugged. “I… don’t really know how to describe it.”

“All right then, show me,” she challenged.

Hermione blinked once then leaned in towards Ginny who laughed loudly. “No, not on me! On him!”

Ginny yanked Hermione around to face a stiffly-standing Draco, still hovering in her open doorway.

She looked up into his hesitant eyes and he gave a flustered cough, and she wondered if he’d be too much the gentleman to oblige Ginny’s forwardness.

Ginny, sensing the awkwardness between the two of them, rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, we’re all adults here!”

He gave her another smile, and an embarrassed lift of his shoulders but Hermione found she couldn’t return the expression or the gesture. Because he could stand there in all his self-possessed confidence and not be affected by the thought of them kissing. Hermione knew that for him, this would mean nothing. Just another favour. Just a simple task for a needy friend.

Ginny opened her mouth to act the part of the Ministry official presiding over their wedding, but Draco cut her off with an impatient motion of his hand and a clucking of his tongue.

“First of all, this” he waved a hand around her head to indicate Hermione’s hair, “will not do.”

Draco reached behind her head and removed the clip keeping her hair pulled tight and away from her face. Ron preferred her hair clipped back. Out of the way. His hands would often get snarled in it.

Her curls tumbled wild and loose around her shoulders and she felt some of the tension in her scalp ease. “Much better,” Draco murmured.

Did Hermione need air to breathe? Probably, that’s how human lungs worked after all. But she found it a difficult task for her pulmonary system at the moment.

Ginny cleared her throat and adopted an upper class affect. “I now pronounce you bonded for life.”

Draco’s eyes held hers, and she saw the question imbued there. Did she trust him with this? Of course she did, but Draco couldn’t really know what he asked of her here. What she’d actually be trusting him with.

When Hermione gave a quick nod of consent, his eyes shifted from a question to a molten glint of determination, holding her hostage with a single, scintillating look.

Suddenly, she wanted all sorts of things she should not want. She wanted him to trap her in this gaze, she wanted to see these eyes smoulder, ignite, and burn while she writhed under him, over him, with him.

One of his long-fingered hands ghosted past her face and he anchored his gentle grip at the base of her neck, cradling the back of her head, fingers effortlessly slipping into her curls.

And then he leaned down, beautiful eyes shuttered and lips ready to meet hers. Was she ready? Would she ever be?

Draco had soft lips. Smooth and reactive. They immediately moulded to hers, becoming the ideal shape to move together in a caressing tandem. She parted her mouth briefly and he did the same, angling his head just right to allow for a barely-there taste of his tongue. A gentle, teasing flick against her own that contained a preview of everything else that tongue could offer her.

As she pulled away slowly, she briefly brought his bottom lip between hers. A tiny whisper of a nibble and she felt his rushing exhale puff against her mouth as his hand fell back to his side.

And gods hadn’t she just been waiting for an excuse to do this? To press her mouth, finally, to some part of his skin ever since their dance lesson?

Hermione opened her eyes but his remained closed as he pulled away. They eventually fluttered open, pouring an earnest emotion into hers. Had Draco felt it too? That urge to grab and indulge in a thousand more kisses? That craving to savour and worship?

To have and to hold and to keep and to love.

But she wasn’t marrying this man.

A sound, a voice, echoed around her. Ginny. Yes, Ginny. Ginny who stood a mere few feet from them.

“Wow… that was… wow… Hermione you should do… that… at the wedding. With Ron.” Ginny’s distant voice floated into her ears and Ginny’s hand shook her arm, but all she felt were Draco’s eyes. He wouldn’t tear his stare away.

Her brain felt waterlogged, as if she’d drowned in silver and peppermint and cloves and it had been a most pleasant death.

Draco blinked and stepped back from her.

“I… I gave you your jacket… so you have that now. Right. Okay, so you have your jacket then. I’ll just,” he gestured vaguely at the air. “Yes, I gave her the jacket and now I can… go. Yes. Okay. Goodbye.”

He shot Hermione one more heated stare and then strode out her door.

“That was… surprising? I suppose?”

Ginny looked to Hermione for an answer she did not want to give.

“Hermione,” Ginny began tentatively, “if there’s something you wanted to talk about… I know I’m Ron’s sister but—”

“And I’m Ron’s fiancée,” Hermione snapped as she returned to reality. “And that’s… the truth of it. But Ginny, please don’t… don’t tell anyone. It was just practice. It didn’t… didn’t mean anything.”

Not for him anyway.

A perfect kiss. One she’d never experience ever again.

* * *

The bass thumped. The lights blinked and blinded. And Blaise stood in the center of their VIP area, a smug grin on his face and a glass raised in a toast to the engaged couple. A crowded room filled with people and drinks and loud music and Draco wanted to Disillusion himself.

He shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake. He seemed to make a lot of those lately.

Kissing Granger, for example, would probably top the list. A divine, fleeting taste of euphoria, to know the feel of her lips. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten home after kissing her. No, not kissing her. Practice kissing her. Fake. Not real.

And never again.

Gods, he’d give almost anything to go back and live once more in ignorant bliss. Back to the time before he knew how Granger’s curls felt in his fist, how she’d opened so readily for him, how she’d arched and breathed and tasted…

Bugger.

To add another colossal mistake onto the long list of Draco’s regrets, he’d somehow decided to still attend this joint stag and hens do at Blaise’s club. Leave it to Granger to show up looking so disturbingly delectable in a little white dress that she’d thrown a denim jacket over in some silly attempt at modesty. But by her second drink, she’d loosened up enough to remove it and Draco was not prepared.

Because she always did that, didn’t she? Caught him unawares? Unprepared for her? Unprepared for her initial kindness all those months ago, then her humility, her friendship, her compassion, her beauty, her mouth…

Shite.

He glanced over and discreetly raked his gaze over her form. All that skin. Right in his view. Legs, and shoulders and collarbone and just a hint of cleavage and—

Fuck.

Draco resolved to keep his distance for tonight. There were plenty of people here willing to converse with him so his eyes could stop wandering over to where Granger sat on a leather couch with Ginny and every few moments would bend her head slightly forward and suck the straw of her drink between her ruby lips and—

Damn.

Draco wandered over to Blaise and a gaggle of female admirers but that got old fast.

He tried talking with George Weasley, expecting some form of wit or even outright mockery, but the man seemed uncharacteristically distant. Ron joined them and Draco noticed the subtle swap out of a glass of water for the amber liquid in front of George. The younger brother then directed George over to Blaise and his cadre of attractive witches.

Draco declined the invite to rejoin that vapidity, and as Ron immediately ingratiated himself into Blaise’s chattering circle with an anecdote about the joke shop and then turned the conversation over to George, he wondered if he wasn’t the only person to have radically matured post-war.

He tried talking with another Weasley (Percy) but the boorish wizard made him want to drink more whisky and quicker, which Draco did not think was a prudent idea this evening. Too much alcohol and the side of him that loved a dramatic, public speech might come to play and he’d not do that in front of Granger again.

He tried talking with Luna Lovegood, but swiftly made an excuse and moved away when she offered to read his aura. Draco’s aura probably showed glaringly obvious things like “besotted” and “regretful” and “arse over wand-arm” and he really did not need Lovegood spouting off any uncomfortable truths in that ethereal, carrying voice of hers.

He even tried talking with Potter. They both conceded after two minutes that small talk between the pair felt unnatural at this level of sobriety and resolved to try again after a few beverages.

Finally Draco resigned himself to his punishment for having tasted Granger: sitting on the two-seater opposite her and Ginny on the couch. A low table and a dozen feet between them. Simultaneously too close and too far from her.

He hadn’t had an owl from Granger all week. It caused an odd ache to bloom in his chest; sharp and constant whenever he thought of her at all.

She hadn’t spoken a word to him nor had she even looked at him once all night.

Draco now had to reconcile that not only did he miss the divine feel of her plump lips, but he missed her. Her rambling theories and genuine praise in regards to his potion experiments. Her company with Mrs. Figg and humorous observations of the cat herd from their recent visits. Her laughter at something he’d said.

He should leave. He had nothing to distract his stare from wandering across the way, and he’d tried just about every diversionary tactic, when a saviour appeared in the form of Pansy. She plopped down next to him and nudged his ribs in greeting.

“How are you on this genuinely odd evening?”

“Fine. You?”

“Oh just lovely. Truly splendid.”

Draco watched as her dark eyes zeroed in on Blaise and his flock of admirers. He had an arm slung around a leggy brunette who fed him the cherry from her cocktail. Pansy released a sort of disgusted tutting noise.

Then Draco’s gaze slid to George and Ron. George seemed more his old self, getting the women around him to giggle at his jokes but the other Weasley captured his notice. Women paid him attention too, and he seemed to enjoy the fawning praise, but after several moments, he’d pull back from the conversation and glance over guiltily to where his fiancée sat with Ginny.

“We’re quite the pathetic pair, aren’t we?” Pansy commented sadly and then canted her head between Draco and Granger.

He ignored Pansy’s implication. “Pansy… why don’t you tell him? It’s painfully obvious you’re mad for each other.”

She set her painted lips in a thin line. “No. He can slag about all he likes, clearly he’s happy.”

“He only does it to get your attention.”

“Well he has it!” she snapped. “He’s always had it. Stupid… proud… moron… gorgeous… idiot.”

“Blaise is absolutely an idiot,” Draco conceded. “But have you ever given him any indication that you’re serious? You always rebuff his flirting.”

“He doesn’t mean it,” she replied at once. And Draco sensed she repeated that phrase of self-doubt so often to herself that she’d come to believe it.

For all Pansy’s bravado and self-assuredness when doling out advice to Draco, he could see her deeply-rooted insecurities leaking out here. This woman could thumb her nose at her parents’ expectations, take her inheritance and start a booming business all on her own, but she couldn’t confess to Blaise Zabini that she loved him.

“Talk to him,” he advised flatly. “Really talk to him.”

She turned to him and arched her brow. “And you? You’ll talk to Granger then?”

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Please. Don’t.”

Pansy laid a comforting hand on his knee. “Draco…”

“Our situations are hardly comparable,” he interjected harshly. “You and Blaise are a pair of stubborn, mutually-in-love idiots who think resorting to petty jealousy tactics will get you what you want. But at least it’s mutual.”

Pansy’s look of pity morphed into something entirely wicked.

“Oh Draco,” she sighed and shifted much too close to him. “Granger’s been glaring daggers at me ever since I sat down next to you.”

He only barely resisted looking across the way to confirm this. Pansy stared up at him beseechingly, an idea clearly formed in her mind.

“Promise you won’t hex me?”

“Are you hiding a cake in your purse that you plan to throw at me?”

She tittered out a high-pitched, louder-than-necessary laugh and then moved her hand to his thigh.

_Trust me_ , she mouthed. She reached her other hand up and carded it through his hair. Draco frowned at her, but she only winked before releasing him from her overly familiar clutches. With a triumphant smirk, she stood up and flounced away.

To peek or not to peek at Granger?

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Granger toss her entire drink back. He heard Ginny call over the loud music in alarm. “Erm, Hermione are you alright? Maybe you want to slow down a bit?”

“I’m fine Gin. I’ve only had two drinks.”

Draco knew she’d lied.

It occurred to him then that Granger was a sneaky little drunk. She’d claim to need the loo, but would instead detour to the bar and do a shot first and then another on her way back to their section. She stole sips of Ginny’s drinks when the red-head turned away. Her eyes were glazed and unfocused but the second someone addressed her, she perked up and answered them normally.

She hadn’t looked over at Ron once. Ron for his part, checked on her occasionally, but upon seeing Ginny at her side, would turn his attentions back to his brother and some of the women standing closer than should be appropriate to an engaged man. Draco watched Ron slide George another glass of water mid-joke, calling attention to himself and away from the fact he’d needed to swap out his brother’s drink again.

Merlin how long would this untenable situation drag on for? This oddly impersonal and indifferent existence of Weasley and Granger as a couple. Draco marvelled at the fact that these two would be married in two weeks yet couldn’t be bothered to spend much time in each other’s presence.

If Granger ever wanted Draco by her side he didn’t think he’d leave for anything.

Granger swayed in her seat, looking as if she’d fall asleep on the spot before she shook herself awake. She met Draco’s eyes suddenly but jerked her head away immediately and told Ginny she needed the loo.

Draco again knew she’d lied and wanted to follow her, when Percy sat down next to him.

“Draco, I was hoping to speak with you again. Apologies for our previous conversation having been cut short.”

Draco barely resisted the eye roll. Merlin, what kind of bloke wants to talk Ministry business at a stag night?

“Is your brother all right?” Draco asked preemptively, hoping to forestall any more mind-numbing talk of budgetary committees and international relations.

“George? Well… he has his days. He and Angelina have split again, or rather he’s distanced himself from her again,” he sighed. “But Ron’s got it handled, he always knows how to set George to rights, better than the rest of us, anyway. The family’s so fortunate to always have him to rely on. Ron excels at those sorts of interpersonal things, you know. But I’ve wanted to speak with you, incidentally, related to that topic.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Ron mentioned you brew potions recreationally and Hermione’s sung your praises for months now. If you were looking for stable employment, I think you’d be an excellent fit for the Brewing Programme at the Ministry.”

Draco rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of how to respond to such a statement. “Oh… well, I’m not the sort to work for the Ministry. Do they allow for experimenting?”

Draco saw the way Percy’s eyes flicked down to his covered forearm.

“No, that’d be the Research Branch which has a highly competitive application process. Very stringent, indeed. The background check is rather thorough, you understand, given the sensitivity of certain ingredients.”

As Draco had suspected. They probably only allowed for the Ministry-approved recipes in the Brewing Programme. Mindless stirring and chopping while following a script. Dull and safe and of zero interest to him.

“A Ministry job is not really an ambition of mine. I’ve thought more recently about opening my own shop,” Draco offered. “I’ve read up on the regulations and I’d easily qualify for the brewing licence.”

Percy looked intrigued but with an air of haughty disbelief and Merlin did Draco wish he could have been anything but stone-cold sober for this. “A private shop? To compete with the apothecaries?”

“Yes.”

“An interesting idea, no doubt you’ve thought it through. I do wonder if you’ve truly considered how your surname would play with the general public?” Another brief look at Draco’s arm.

Draco had ignored it in the first instance, but the repeat glance made his blood boil. Yes, he knew exactly what this stupid, hideous, _forced_ brand of the Dark Mark kept him from achieving in this post-war society, thank you very much. Percy Weasley was certainly not the first person to not so subtly allude to Draco’s youthful misdeeds nor would he be the last.

Before he could unleash a furious diatribe on the audacity of this conversation at all, Percy gave him a condescending smile and then got up.

“Think about it Malfoy. It’d be a great way to restore some respect to your name. You spend a few years in the Ministry programme, put in some solid time at a stable job, and then further down the line you’ll have all the political and social capital you’d need for your shop. I do believe it’d be most prudent for you to network with the right sort of people and make beneficial connections, perhaps even host a dinner party or two. Look for my owl.”

Gods if it hadn’t felt like talking with Astoria again. The unsolicited advice. The references to moving up in the world, to having to hob-knob with the “right sorts.” All the performative tripe Lucius used to do and look where that had landed the Malfoy family.

A mass of curls in the distance caught his eye and he belatedly remembered his quest to ensure Granger didn’t pass out at the bar.

When he finally reached her, he could see that by now all her sneaky stealing of drinks had caught up with her. She leaned against the wooden bar top for support, one of her dress straps a bit lower than it ought to be, and her bleary, unfocused gaze peered into the contents of her glass as if it were the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen and would be solely responsible for making sure she survived the evening.

“Hello Granger.”

Her head snapped up at his voice but her eyes blinked slow and long.

“Malfoy,” she said, and her mouth twisted into a sour frown. “Enjoying the party?”

“Not particularly,” he clipped but the ice cubes in her drink had captured her attention again.

“So you and Pansy? How’s… how’s that going?”

That inconvenient pang in his chest at the thought she’d be at all jealous made itself known.

“Pansy and I are just friends.”

Granger carried on as if he hadn’t spoken.

“It’s expect—expected though… isn’t it? Look around—all the old Hog-Hogwarts couples! Gin and Harry… and me and Ron… and you—you and… and…”

Her breath hitched and she closed her eyes and leaned against the bar. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, hold her. Tell her he didn’t want “expected” and neither should she. Why should they have to settle for _expected_ when other breathtaking, exciting, spectacular, terrifying options were just within reach?

Draco grabbed a passing Potter instead.

“You need to get Granger home. Now.” Draco gestured to the slumped, muttering Granger and Potter took the hint.

“I’ll get Ron, hang on.”

“Yes, please do pull him away from whichever pair of tits he’s chatting up to tend to his fiancée if he doesn’t mind,” he said with a curled lip. Potter frowned, but didn’t contradict him.

Turning back to Granger, he noticed she’d finished the rest of her drink.

“Granger, let me get you some water at least.”

She shoved the empty glass away and faced him with a sad smile. “Granger Granger Granger. That’s all... isn’t it? All I am to you? Silly… silly Granger and her silly wedding problems.”

“That’s not all you are to me.”

But she was too far gone. Granger waved a hand in his general direction.

“You… you’re… you’re so… and you don’t even know it, with your hair and your face and your… you-ness. Your… peppermint and cloves and wit and… gods and I’m just…”

She looked up at him with glassy, pleading eyes. “If things… things were different… would you… would you have?”

“Would I have what?”

“Grown old… with me.”

Potter approached with a glum-looking Weasley trailing about 15 feet behind. There wasn’t enough time. There would never be enough time for him to tell her. To tell her of course he wanted to grow old with her.

Because in his current life trajectory he could only walk on solid ground when he knew, with her, he could fly. Draco could see it so clearly now. He didn’t want some faceless future bride, some random witch he hoped would just cross his path and make him happy for the rest of his days. He didn’t want love, he wanted _her_ love. Hermione Granger, specifically, would do and no other witch.

He’d run out of time.

“Granger I—”

She stumbled forward suddenly but Potter got there first, catching her by the arms. Granger looked up at him fearfully.

“Harry, I think I… I think I might—”

“Okay Hermione let’s—“

Granger interrupted Potter by promptly throwing up all over his shoes.

* * *

Draco knew this would be another mistake. But he couldn’t keep himself from worrying over Granger all night. From the moment he heard her pathetic whimpers as Potter and Weasley carted her limp form out of the club, he knew he’d be up for the next few hours to brew her a Hangover Draught.

A tiny little thing and not what one would call a seasoned drinker, Draco assumed Granger would experience quite the nasty headache come morning.

Could he have just owled her the potion?

Yes, of course, obviously.

But if he’d owled the potion, he might miss her answering the door. He might miss the way her eyes would light up when she saw him standing there. He might miss the adorable flush to her cheeks when she stammered out an apology for drinking too much. He might miss her gasp of surprised delight when he presented her with the Draught. He might miss her tugging on a loose curl when she thanked him.

But worst of all, he might miss this opportunity to tell her how he really felt. To tell her gods, yes, I want to grow old with you.

He missed all of those opportunities anyway.

Because Weasley answered the door.

“Oh hey Malfoy. Er, can I help you?”

“I was stopping by for Granger actually.”

“Oh, did you and Hermione have a wedding thing today? She’s still knocked out, but if you’ll be late for something I can see if—”

“No need,” Draco clipped. “It’s nothing I just… thought I’d stop by with this.” He handed Weasley a vial. “It’s my personal recipe for a hangover. Thought she might need it this morning.”

Weasley stared curiously at the vial in his hands for a moment. “That’s… thoughtful.”

His brow furrowed and the stare dragged on but then he blinked and jerked his gaze up to Draco. “Thanks for taking care of her by the way. Merlin. That’s a statement I’d never thought I’d say.”

“Yes, well, you seemed rather… occupied,” drawled Draco, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Draco expected a biting retort. An angry defense. An immature insult or a verbal jab or even a mild hex.

Instead, Weasley’s fingers curled around the vial and he let out a long sigh.

“Yeah, that seems to be my constant state these days, eh? Being summoned to the shop, or staying over at George’s or minding one of my brothers’ kids, checking in on Mum and Dad. It seems ever since Fred...” He shook himself and the tips of his ears reddened, embarrassed at having rambled on about his family issues. “Right well, thanks for stopping by with this.”

Ron Weasley, noble to the last. The thought lanced through Draco’s chest and suddenly all his bitter anger at the other wizard dissipated into nothing.

This man may not have that life-altering, passionate love with Granger, but he’d treat her well. He could offer her a life in society the way Draco couldn’t. Granger, with all her ambitions and career goals, would need a partner by her side that the world wouldn’t shun or mock.

Well if that’s what Granger truly wanted, then what was that pretty speech about “bells on a hill” and exciting new discoveries of sensations in love?

_Which one Granger?_

Draco stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to leave, futile good deed done for the day.

“Oi, hang on!” Weasley called him back.

“Here… Percy wanted me to give you this bloke’s card. Said he’d take the liberty of setting up an interview for you and to look for his owl in a day or so. Said you should move quickly on it if you’re interested.”

Draco accepted the business card.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading everyone! Comments/kudos always appreciated and all the alpha/beta love goes to my friend mrsbutlertron (@popsiclememories). 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr: [@heyjude19-writing](https://heyjude19-writing.tumblr.com/).


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione approached the dress shop only to see the surprising figure of Draco outside the building, throwing her off-kilter. He was not the Malfoy she’d planned to meet with today.

Besides the now near-constant fluttering in her abdomen whenever she thought about him, the sight of him also conjured the sickly feeling of shame.

She hadn’t spoken to Draco for the past few days. The last recollection she had of a conversation with him was some sort of drunken rambling she’d spewed at him at the stag and hen event two nights ago and for the life of her she couldn’t recall what she’d said to him. She’d felt awful, physically, the next morning, and of course Ron only had to make it worse by handing her a vial of Hangover Cure brewed by Draco himself. The friend she’d been avoiding. The friend she’d been ignoring.

He didn’t deserve her cold shoulder, but how could she face him after sharing such a perfect, intimate kiss? One that had surged so far past the boundaries of friendship and into some otherworldly realm of euphoria. A realm where perhaps she could shed the shackles of weighty expectations and be free to chase something entirely new.

Something exciting, something passionate.

But fear of the unknown seemed keen to rear its ugly head. Hermione had faced evil head-on, and the concept of physical danger never really did frighten her, but to give her heart away and to Draco Malfoy of all people? And to hurt Ron in the process? For what? The chance the man leaning against the building of the dress shop, looking to all the world the perfect picture of unflappable elegance, _might_ feel the same way?

“Hi Draco,” she said quietly, wondering if his most recent memory of her involved her vomiting all over poor Harry’s shoes. Harry probably wouldn’t let her live that down for at least five years.

“Hello Granger.”

“I um, thought I’d be meeting your mother today.”

Draco pushed off the wall and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“She’s inside,” he said quickly, giving her a guilty look. “I only thought… well you’ve never been properly introduced and I just wanted to ensure you were… comfortable… in her presence.”

And gods didn’t that just make her heart ache for him all the more? That sensitivity to her needs and that he'd been thoughtful enough to consider this angle?

She brushed aside his concerns immediately. “Oh, it’s fine Draco, really, I’ve had brief chats with her here and there at different charity functions. Thank you though,” she added and smiled. “I wouldn’t have agreed to her presence if I wasn’t comfortable.”

“It was no trouble, Granger.”

He held the door for her.

Narcissa stood regally next to the seamstress. Hermione had held civil conversations with her over the years, mostly the surface level chit-chat one conducted at galas and the like. However, the reality of having this woman at her final bridal fitting bordered on fantastical.

But when Narcissa Malfoy personally recommends her formal robe and gown designer, you not only take that impeccably dressed woman up on the offer, but you send her a rather wordy thank you note and offer her a favour in return.

And she’d asked Hermione if she could join her at a fitting.

“Mother, this is—”

“Draco, honestly, you’re being ridiculous,” Narcissa waved a dismissive hand in her son’s direction and Hermione counted at least three rings with gems of rather impressive size.

“Hello again Miss Granger,” she stepped forward briskly and offered Hermione a firm handshake.

“Hello Mrs. Malfoy,” she replied, biting back a laugh at the scowl on Draco’s face.

“I’ll just…” he gestured vaguely towards a seating area at the front of the shop. “Wait here until you’re finished, Mother.”

Narcissa waved him away with a careless hand and eyed Hermione with interest.

“I do appreciate your allowing my presence today. Louisa described your dress to me the last time I’d had a gala fitting and I knew I just had to see your dress for myself.”

Hermione blushed and then allowed Louisa, the head seamstress, to chivvy her to a back room to don her dress.

She’d come to every other dress appointment all on her own. Ginny generally had either practice or a match. Hermione felt odd around Molly when it came to fashion, knowing their styles were vastly different and she’d probably cave to the older woman’s preferences.

Meanwhile, her own mother lived across the world and had no idea that her only child struggled, truly struggled. She’d be married to one man in under two weeks, confused and pining after another and she had no other women in her life with whom to share this milestone moment.

Hermione felt it then, the weight of her loneliness.

The seamstress helped her into the voluminous fabric and with a few brief flicks of her wand, Hermione’s dress buttoned up and secured itself snugly to her frame. The trio of mirrors in front of her reflected a woman draped in pristine, glowing white.

The garment itself was spectacular, exactly as she’d envisioned from her very first appointment. A simple A-line silhouette, with a sweetheart neckline and capped sleeves. Louisa had sewn in an intricate, subtle detailing of pearlescent vines along the white satin material, beginning where the bodice dipped along her lower back and flowing down along her skirt and onto the moderate-length train.

Louisa scuttled behind her to open the curtains and then fluffed out the train and let it fall delicately to the floor to form its full shape. Hermione caught the eyes of Narcissa in the mirror.

“Miss Greengass never did allow me to her fittings,” Narcissa commented quietly and Hermione felt a rush of sympathy towards a woman who seemed to have a hole in her life for a daughter.

Narcissa, she realised, probably knew loneliness too, even with a regular social circle of high-society wives. Her husband gone, and no daughters to speak of, this might be her only moment to fawn over a young witch in a bridal gown.

She circled Hermione in light, measured steps, taking in every intricate detail of the gown.

“Stunning,” the older woman declared and Hermione saw her own cheeks flush. For Narcissa Malfoy in all her fine-boned, ethereal beauty to pay her such a compliment meant more than it should.

“And what did you decide on for the veil?” piped up Louisa, holding up an option for her consideration.

“I’m… well, I’m not sure… I suppose we can pin it in. Will it be too difficult to remove post-ceremony? I’ve not decided how I’m wearing my hair yet.”

Narcissa pursed her lips and tilted her head thoughtfully at Hermione.

“Louisa, if I may? I think Miss Granger needs just a moment to decide.”

Narcissa accepted the veil from the seamstress who then took her leave.

“Forgive my forwardness, but you strike me as the type of witch who is generally decisive and uncompromising in her opinions.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

Narcissa held up the length of tulle. “Do you want to wear a veil?”

“No. I don’t.”

The firm statement came out of her mouth automatically and Narcissa gave her an indulgent smile. Hermione then reached up and removed her hair clip, freeing her curls. No more tight, contained hairstyle, she’d let it stream down her shoulders, unencumbered by unnecessary veils or other restraints.

“I’ll give you a minute. It can be… overwhelming,” Narcissa gave Hermione another small smile of understanding and excused herself.

Peeking over her shoulder to ensure she’d been left alone, Hermione grabbed her wand and cast a quick _Muffliato_.

She took a deep breath and looked at herself in the mirrors. She saw a confident, beautiful, well-dressed woman. How she’d look on her wedding day. A silly thought occurred to her then. About how she’d introduce herself once she’d taken her vows and accepted a ring.

Hermione took a deep breath and shook back her curls, standing tall in the mirror.

“Hello,” she said to her reflection. “I’m Mrs. Hermione Granger… Weasley.”

She took another breath and tried again. “Pleasure to meet you, I’m Mrs. Hermione Granger… Weasley.”

Maybe if she said it faster?

“Hermione Granger-Weasley.”

She gave a sudden, harsh gasp and clutched at her midsection. Tears formed in her eyes. It felt so wrong, oh gods what was she doing? That name didn’t work, didn’t feel like her, it caused a tightening sensation around her chest and throat.

She sniffled and dried her eyes.

A manic thought surged to the front of her mind. She shouldn’t be crying in her wedding gown, she should be grinning like mad. Lately, one man had become particularly adept at inspiring all her grins, laughs, and feelings of true joy.

Hermione peeked over her shoulder again. Still alone. She took a deep breath. “Hello, I’m Mrs. Hermione Granger-Malfoy.”

The smile that stretched her face threatened to split it in two. “Hermione Granger-Malfoy.”

She indulged the little fantasy further, imagining herself shaking hands with new acquaintances and wedding guests. “It’s so nice to meet you, I’m Hermione Granger-Malfoy. Draco and I were so pleased you could come to our wedding. He’s doing so well you know, have you heard about his new shop?”

She giggled into her hands and smoothed down the sides of her dress. What a lovely thought. She looked up and beamed widely at her reflection, enamoured with the idea and lost in a dream when she noticed a movement over her shoulder. The very man that had caused her to lose all sense in the first place.

“Oh!” She dismissed the _Muffliato_ and gathered up her skirts to turn around and actually face him.

Draco stood dumbfounded, staring at her. How long had he been standing there? Oh gods, had he seen her positively alight with happiness at the thought of attaching herself to him?

Still he stared, his light eyes roving over the gown and Hermione burned with the need to understand both the meaning behind his stare and the thoughts inspiring it.

“Well… what do you think?” she bravely threw out.

His gaze snapped to her face.

“Granger you look…” He closed his mouth and looked away. “You look happy. So happy.”

And for some reason, he frowned as he said it.

Draco tossed out a curt excuse about needing to find his mother and strode away, leaving Hermione with an unsaid response living inside her mouth: _Because of you._

* * *

Just add another mistake onto the list, Draco thought bitterly as he paced outside the dress shop, waiting for his mother to finish up this unnecessary errand with Granger. Why on earth his mother had so enthusiastically jumped at the chance to be involved here he had no idea, but now, because of her excitement, he’d been forced to prematurely see how Granger would look on her wedding day. Transcendent, of course. And far, far out of his reach.

The door opened and Narcissa stepped out with a knowing grin.

“She’s a lovely witch,” his mother said in greeting.

Draco gave a noncommittal grunt in response.

“But I’m sure you didn’t need me to tell you,” continued Narcissa.

Another indistinct noise from Draco.

“The type of woman who appreciates honesty. And possibly also a… declaration or gesture considered romantic in nature.”

Draco scowled at her overt needling. “She’s engaged,” he said flatly.

“Correct. Which also means not married.”

Before he could throw out a deflective retort, his mother smirked and apparated away, confirming his suspicion that her promise of a lunch post-appointment had been quite the ruse.

But while Draco couldn’t shake the blinding vision of beauty his eyes had just been privileged to behold, he similarly couldn’t shake the happiness radiating off of her. That look of wide-eyed wonder at the thought of her impending marriage as she regarded herself in the mirror, delighted at the thought of joining herself to Weasley.

No matter what his meddlesome mother thought or said, how could Draco begrudge Granger her true desires?

Lost in his own head, he hadn’t realised he still lingered outside the shop until Granger, dressed in her street clothes at least, walked briskly up to him. She stalked over purposefully and trapped him with an odd, abrasive question.

“Why are you helping me plan this wedding?”

Draco lifted a brow and delivered a mostly true statement. “I told you at the outset. I love weddings. And as you said, I needed a hobby.”

She shook her head. “No, no, Draco this is more than that, this is beyond a hobby. All you ever needed to do was owl me a list of vendors or have my name put on some appointment books. But you… you showed up to every event, every silly planning night. Why?”

Why had he helped her? Because she’d asked and he’d desperately needed the distraction.

But why did he continue to help her, above and beyond any reasonable expectation? Because he loved her.

Because with every planning step, every decision, every appointment, he hurtled further down this inevitable path of falling for Granger. Of careening toward visions of this being something they were planning for _them_ , for _their_ wedding. 

This masochistic behavior on his part conjured a future of immediate heartache for him, but also showed him the frustrating utopia just out of his reach. The timeline wherein he did get to grow old with Granger. 

He could picture her so clearly.

Granger, lounging in the morning sun, sheets sliding down to pool at her hips. She wouldn’t wear socks to bed and her feet would be disturbingly cold and she’d rub her freezing little toes against his calf and giggle when he yelped and complained about her lack of blood circulation. She’d cluck her tongue and roll closer, only wearing one of his shirts, and put her curl-covered head on top of his chest, pressing a kiss to his sternum. She’d bat her eyelashes and ask if he wouldn’t mind putting the kettle on this morning? She’s just so tired out from last night you see, all the hours he kept her up, kept her moving and moaning.

He’d roll his eyes and grumble, but he’d get up all the same, falling into this beautiful routine of domesticity. She’d eventually pad out of their bedroom and approach him from behind to throw her arms around his torso and bury her face against his back. Then she’d mutter something sweet like, “I was only teasing, darling, come back to bed?” And he’d pretend to be very invested in the boiling of the kettle until she pouted and then before she’d known what hit her, he’d bend and scoop her up, toss her over his shoulder and carry her right back into the bedroom.

Her gorgeous laugh would echo around them as he tossed her gently onto the bed, enamoured with her mischievous smile as they soon became too distracted to worry over the state of the kettle.

But he could never have that. Because Granger was apparently content to ride out the rest of her days in the arms of Weasley.

And he couldn’t be the one taking all the risk here.

“Why are you marrying Weasley?” he tossed back instead.

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, seeming conflicted on how to answer.

“Ron is a good man, but Draco I—”

“And that’s it Granger. A good man with a good name and good standing. Everything you’ll ever need.”

Before she could respond, he apparated home.

Obviously, Granger did not have the same fantasies he did. Of unending days in their bed. Or at their kitchen table trading the paper back and forth. Or in their shared potions lab where she’d chop and he’d stir and they’d test together and make wild discoveries and debate hotly and love fiercely for the rest of time.

A scenario so typical of the tragedy of Draco Malfoy’s life: to fall desperately for a woman like Granger. A woman who deserved to live out her days in ease and comfort, not saddled with the burden of associating with him.

He recalled the conversation with Percy. The deference once afforded to the Malfoy name no longer existed, isn’t that what everyone (the press, Astoria, the general public) had been saying for years now?

If he wanted a witch like Granger… should he conform too? For all her talk of encouraging Draco to pursue his dreams, it certainly didn’t seem to be enough to turn her head.

He whistled for his owl.

* * *

Draco sighed as he descended down the front steps of Mrs. Figg’s home. He’d arrived earlier than usual and had hoped to avoid a confrontation but alas, Granger just loved disrupting his life.

She stood resolutely at the end of the walkway, eyes narrowed in accusation. He had a feeling if her arms weren’t full of odd objects (a bundle of parchment with a ribbon tied round it and a gift box) that she’d have her hands on her hips too.

“Bit early for you to be leaving, isn’t it?”

Draco shrugged and held his ground. “I’ve got some other things on, had to adjust my schedule.”

“You didn’t think to send word to me?”

“Would you have bothered to reply?”

“Considering my owls to you have gone unanswered the past two days and you’ve closed your Floo, I’d say your question is completely ridiculous.”

Draco ignored her accurate summation of the current state of affairs between the pair of them.

“Mrs. Figg’s resting now, she has no further need for visitors today.”

Granger took a cautious step forward, shortening the physical distance between them.

“While that’s a shame, she’s not the only one I wanted to see today.”

Another step closer.

“Well you can keep her company next time. I’ve had to drop off several months’ supply as I won’t have the time to brew at my usual rate anymore,” Draco drawled. His diversion worked and she stayed put. Still far enough away from him.

“Why not?”

“I’ve had to make some recent… decisions, you see. About where I’d like to be, career-wise, and unfortunately that might mean cutting back on other activities so I can advance myself.”

“Advance yourself? Draco what are you… no… you can’t mean…?” She groaned in exasperation as the pieces fell into place for her. “Not that Ministry job Percy was harping on about? That’s a complete waste of your talent! Draco why would you even consider a position like that?”

“To restore some respect to my name. A Ministry career could do that for me.”

She recoiled from him, perplexed almost to the point of anger. “But that’s… Draco that’s not what you want!”

“Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

“No. Not everyone.”

No, she did not get to do that. She did not get to utter that response like some quiet, shared truth between just the two of them.

He advanced on her then, lip curling. “But that’s what you want isn’t it? To no longer feel like an outsider? Because that’s what Weasley can give you.”

“No. I’m different. You’re different. We’re—”

“Wrong, Granger. For once in your life you’re wrong. Turns out, we’re just like everyone else.”

His sneer did nothing to dissuade her.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you like. Good luck with your wedding, I hope you’ll be happy. I think we planned a good one.”

He tried to brush past her but she stepped right into his path.

“Draco stop this! What about your brewing research? What about your potions shop? I think you’d be magnificent and I wanted to give you—”

“Oh would you stop being so stupid! Grow up Granger! We don’t get everything we want in this life and it’s rather pathetic you haven’t realised that yet.”

She sucked in a sharp inhale, his harsh words delivering a blow that made her eyes fill and then slowly leak. She suddenly rushed forward and shoved the stack of parchment and gift box into his chest.

“For you,” she choked out then took a step back and disapparated.

Draco stared after the empty space previously occupied by Granger. Carefully, he lifted the lid to the gift box and curiously plucked out a glass vial. In neat script on his ideal label parchment it read “ _Brewed by D. L. Malfoy”_ and included lines for the potion name, ingredients, and dosage instructions.

With slightly shaking fingers he placed it back in its box with nearly a dozen others and then noticed the parchment in his hands. The same parchment they’d picked out together all those months ago. The same parchment that had inspired him to divulge his great ambition to go into brewing for himself. She’d had it monogrammed for him as well.

While thoughtful gifts and sincere words of encouragement were all well and good, they’d be nothing but bitter reminders of the witch marrying another man next week. Still, the amount of care that had gone into this gesture and what the personalised items signified left Draco feeling simultaneously fulfilled and bereft.

“You, boy, are an idiot,” Mrs. Figg wheezed from the door.

Draco whirled around in disbelief. “How are you out of bed?”

“As if I were going to miss this.”

“I’m going to levitate you in there this time.”

“You’ll do no such thing, you will carry me like the fussy little gentleman you were raised to be.”

Draco rolled his eyes and obliged her all the same, lifting her easily and carrying her back down the hall. He knew he’d not heard the last from her and sure enough once he’d deposited her back into bed, she made her opinion plain.

“You’re being foolish you know.”

“In falling for your frail old lady act? I know, but I’m too invested in Jezebel’s affections now and so must continue visiting.”

“Oh? I thought you had some big, important… Ministry job now and no more… time for me or that prissy little cat?”

He’d forgotten she’d been listening in to the conversation. While he did indeed have a job offer practically waiting on him at the Ministry, he’d never let that encroach on his time with Mrs. Figg. She smirked triumphantly at having caught his lie to Granger even as her drowsiness began to take control.

“You’ve pushed her… too far I think,” she continued more seriously.

“Doesn’t matter now,” clipped Draco impatiently. “And you should rest. Please.”

“And you should… remove your head… from your arse and… tell that girl… you love her.”

Mrs. Figg’s eyes finally fluttered shut as she drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

Draco closed the door on the sleeping woman and apparated home and tried to center his mind for his Ministry interview tomorrow. It’d be a much easier task if he could forget about bright brown, tear-filled eyes or a radiant witch in a wedding gown or a defeated, inebriated voice asking about growing old with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just one more chapter to go! Thanks everyone for reading and leaving comments/kudos, I appreciate it!
> 
> And thank you to alpha/beta/fantastic friend mrsbutlertron (@popsiclememories on tumblr).
> 
> You can find me on tumblr: [@heyjude19-writing](https://heyjude19-writing.tumblr.com/).


	7. Chapter 7

_“…stupid… grow up… pathetic…”_

Draco’s harsh words reverberated around her mind in an echo chamber of cruelty as Hermione paced around her flat. She clenched and unclenched her fists, wearing a hole in the floors as she stalked up and down her living room.

Perhaps she was stupid. Stupid to think he’d take a chance with her.

Maybe she did need to grow up; to pack away idealistic thoughts on what a marriage should look like and how it should feel.

Her actions towards Draco could reasonably be considered pathetic. Dancing with him, kissing him, falling for him… when none of it mattered anyway.

She’d gone to Mrs. Figg’s today to finally tell him the truth. Arms full of gifts and a mouth full of honesty that she’d not gotten to impart the way she’d envisioned. At least she left him with those ill-conceived gifts. He could burn them for all she cared.

Her tears cried in misery and shame morphed to ones of fury. That prat thought he was so above it all and yet he’d stoop to take this Ministry job while throwing that jab in her face about her not being any different from the rest of their peers.

Fine. She’d show him unexpected. He wanted to conform to a Ministry drone? Well two could play at that, she’d do something so wildly out of character his head would spin.

Hermione shovelled down her dinner alone, unaware of the food even passing her lips. No distractions could stem her thrumming anxiety for the course of action she’d decided on, but first she needed Ron to come home.

By the time she’d cleaned up dinner, drank several cups of tea, paced a few more rounds, tried and failed to read three different books, resisted the urge to blast apart her CD player and with it a certain song, she felt spent and put herself to bed. She hoped by the time Ron came home, her pillow would be dry.

Hermione woke the next morning and heard the familiar sound of Ron snoring softly beside her. The weight of Draco’s dismissal and rejection from yesterday stung worse than ever, even with the amount of sleep she’d gotten.

If only he’d… or perhaps if only she’d…

No, she thought, not one more second would be wasted on that inconsiderate prat.

Hermione had a very important task to complete today. She quickly got dressed, hardly paying attention to the clothes she put on, bustled to the kitchen to make tea, and then quickly sent off a Patronus to her office to say she had a personal emergency and wouldn’t be coming into work today. She would however, still need to visit the Ministry.

Because if Draco didn’t want her, then Hermione didn’t want the stupid wedding they’d planned either. Every detail would just remind her of him. Of what she couldn’t have.

No, no more thinking about him.

She marched back into the bedroom and shook her sleeping fiancé by the shoulder.

“Ron. Ron! Get up, please.”

“Wassamatter?”

“I want to elope.”

Ron blinked awake and propped himself up onto his elbows to squint groggily at her.

“Err… what?”

“I want to elope,” Hermione repeated.

He sat up further, still not comprehending Hermione’s proposition.

“But… we can’t… the wedding is next weekend?”

“I don’t care, let’s just… let’s just go get married!”

“Now?”

“Yes, right now. Get dressed, we’ll go to the Ministry.”

Hermione strode over to their closet and pulled out an outfit for him haphazardly; throwing a shirt, trousers, outer robes, and belt onto the bed without any care for whether any of it matched. Leaving Ron to it, she went to wait for him and double-checked she had everything in order for the Ministry officiant.

Both birth certificates, official ID cards, wands, 20-Galleon paperwork fee…

“Hermione… wait… just wait.”

She turned to see Ron ambling into the kitchen, still in his pajamas.

“Ron, just get dressed. I’ve got it all sorted, we just need to go to the Hall of Records, then—”

“No, Hermione. No.”

He sighed and ran a hand through sleep-mussed hair. When his earnest blue eyes met hers, she knew the next words out of his mouth would contradict the rash plan she’d barked at him. But beyond that, she could sense she’d finally backed him into just the right corner, had driven him to the precise precipice and he would now take the leap.

He sat heavily on the sofa and hugged his arms around his middle. The mannerism one she recognised immediately as a tic he’d use to ground himself.

“I can’t… I can’t do this anymore,” Ron said in a hollow voice. “All I do is cater to other people’s demands and I’m done. I don’t want to elope, and if that’s what you want I just…”

Suddenly Ron jumped to his feet and took up the pacing route through the living room Hermione herself had traced just last night. Confessions tumbled out of his mouth in an almost hysterical stream.

“And I don’t want to keep working at the shop! Or get the frantic calls to tend to George! Or look after Bill and Fleur’s kids, or try to convince Dad to retire or be the one to make sure Percy still gets invites to family events! Or cook dinner for Mum because she’s overwhelmed or… or…”

Ron came to a sudden halt and turned back to face her, his necessary unravelling complete.

“I love you Hermione. So much. But I’m just… I’m not ready to be someone’s husband right now.”

“Okay,” Hermione swallowed and felt the sting of yet another rejection in as little as twenty-four hours. “Would you feel better if we postponed the wedding?”

She kept her voice calm, hoping to let Ron borrow some of her steadiness. His eyes became panicked again.

“Ron,” she called softly and approached him to place a hand on his arm to prod him into the direction of unrestrained honesty. “What do you want?”

She realised that she’d been part of the problem too. Did she ever offer to help him with his familial obligations? She’d been so busy playing the martyr with this wedding neither of them seemed keen to plan that it had become easier to pretend Ron’s neglect of her was out of a disinterested selfishness. 

Ron laid a large hand over hers.

“I don’t know, I… I don’t… I don’t want... I can’t take care of you too, the way you deserve. When I think of what I want to do with my free time it’s… I just want to be a stupid young bloke. No responsibilities, just having fun with Harry, with you, with… other people.”

The youthful escapades this world had robbed Ron and many others of while the elder generation relied on three teenagers to solve their mess.

Ron guiltily looked away after his confession. “And oh gods… I know I’ve been ignoring you and forcing you to plan this whole giant wedding practically on your own, the way you always do, pick up my slack…”

And there he went, putting her on a pedestal. A proclamation of perfection she did not deserve, not by a long shot. She’d been selfish and blind to her own fiancé’s needs, her best friend’s suffering. When had a wedding become more important than his emotional stability? This epiphany would be blamed for the statement that then fell out of her mouth.

“I kissed Draco.”

He stared at her, mouth agape and eyes wide.

“Not on purpose!” Hermione quickly clarified. “I mean it was on purpose, but it was just practice! Ginny was there and actually she was the one who goaded me into it, but the fact remains that I… I did kiss him.”

Ron opened and closed his mouth a few times then stalked over to the couch to sit heavily down again. He shook his head back and forth a few times and then let out a dark, defeated laugh.

“Oh my gods… you kissed another bloke… and Malfoy at that, gross… and I can’t even find the energy to be mad about it… Merlin.”

And when Ron pinned her to the spot with his eyes, she saw the old spark of her intuitive best friend that had been missing in recent months.

“The elopement… this is about him, isn’t it?” Ron accused.

“No!” Hermione immediately denied. “I just felt with all the pressure on us that we could do away with all the pomp and circumstance and have a simple—”

“Don’t,” he spat harshly, then cringed at his own voice. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Hermione.”

An ugly silence fell, Hermione feeling the double pain of having broken one man’s heart and having hers broken by another.

“Ron, I never meant… for this to happen. I wasn’t… looking elsewhere, I swear. If you don’t want to elope today, it’s fine, we can still have the wedding next weekend.”

His face twisted in a frown and he sank back against the cushions.

“I’m tired Hermione. I’m so bloody tired all the time. And I won’t do it. I won’t be your consolation prize. So if this is just a way to… get his attention then I’m done.”

No tears in his eyes. Just grim resignation. Hermione swallowed her pride and delivered the death blow to safety, to comfort, to familiarity.

“It doesn’t matter, Draco doesn’t want… well it’s not… You deserve to have someone put you first. And that person hasn’t been me for a long time Ron and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Neither moved for several minutes as Hermione sniffled and Ron stared, unseeing, at the floor. Eventually he cleared his throat and patted the cushion next to him. Hermione sat and fidgeted for a few uncomfortable moments before he threw out another offer of kindness she didn’t deserve.

“I can at least help you cancel everything,” he said gruffly.

“No, I can handle that just… you have to tell your family.”

Ron nodded. “I expect Mum will go off, but who knows, maybe this will get everyone off my back for a bit, eh?” he said wryly.

Hermione laughed weakly. The sound of the end of her relationship with Ron coming out as a pathetic ghost of chuckle from her and a dry remark from him.

She opened her mouth to offer some sort of logistical plan for dealing with their living arrangements when Ron bolted upright.

“Oh shit! The international portkey! For the honeymoon!”

“What about it?”

“Hermione, it’s literally the one task you gave me, to plan the Greece trip.”

Hermione followed as he staggered back to the bedroom and began rummaging through his dresser.

“Shite, sorry,” he declared and held a crumpled piece of parchment at her. Hermione quickly scanned all the contractual language on cancelling the portkey.

He checked his watch. “I’m supposed to meet Harry for lunch today on my break… but this is a lot of Galleons. If we hurry we can cancel it, since we’re just at the one week cut-off. We’re both registered and we have to go in person, it should only take a few minutes," he implored but Hermione wouldn't deny him this one simple ask. 

“It’s the least I can do Ron.”

“Great, let me send a quick owl to Harry.”

* * *

Draco took a steadying breath and straightened the sleeves of his professional black robes. In less than an hour, he’d sit in some stuffy Ministry office, putting on the composed face of a man who desired nothing more than to work for the government.

But a pit of unease grew in his gut, and not from nerves. His eyes landed on the box of vials and parchment on his writing desk. He should toss them. He shouldn’t keep around mementos of her.

He turned his back on the reminder of wasted potential and walked purposefully to the Manor’s guest wing. He pressed his ear against one of the oak doors, pleasantly surprised to note a Silencing Charm had been put up. For once.

“Blaise… get up,” Draco called and banged a firm fist against the door. “I know you’re in this room, it’s your favorite guest room for when you want to hide from my mother.”

The door swung open to reveal literally all of his best friend.

_“Why are you naked!?”_

Blaise only shrugged and leaned against the door jamb.

“Never mind,” Draco said shortly, averting his eyes. “Well I… I’ve got my interview at the Ministry and I was hoping… I could use some company is all. I’ll go spare otherwise,” he confessed.

Blaise glanced uneasily behind him, in the direction of the bed and Draco knew his guest probably remained, also sans clothing.

“Fine, if you can’t be bothered I’ll just go ask Pansy,” Draco huffed and turned away.

“Erm… no need. I’m already here…” called a familiar voice and Draco froze in his tracks. He refused to turn around and confirm if Pansy also existed in his home in the nude.

“If you two could just—“ he waved a vague hand over his shoulder, “—I’d appreciate the support, I guess.”

To their combined credit, Draco only heard mild grumbling as they eventually accompanied him to the Floo, thankfully in full robes.

“Don’t think I’m letting you two off the hook. When I’m through signing my life away to this job and can have a proper think again I need to know about whatever this is,” Draco insisted then whirled away in a flash of green flames.

When all three had arrived in the Atrium fireplaces, Blaise and Pansy shared sly grins.

“There’s nothing to know, Draco. It’s what we want,” said Pansy simply. “I took your advice and—”

“And now she’s stuck with me,” asserted Blaise with a confident grin.

Oh how Draco wanted to roll his eyes at the way Pansy blushed. But he couldn’t begrudge these two their happiness as he could only feel an icy sting of dread while his feet marched him towards a future of tedious obligation.

An elderly couple shot out of the Floo just ahead, the witch stumbling a bit as she got to her feet, and her husband quickly righting her, almost toppling both of them. They shared an affectionate laugh and offered Draco, Blaise and Pansy friendly smiles as they passed by.

“After all these years, and she’s still falling for me,” the old man joked and tossed them a wink. His wife chuckled and swatted his arm.

Draco stopped his progression towards the lifts. His steps stagnant as his eyes followed the slow, meandering pace of the couple leaving the Atrium.

Pansy called his name but it barely registered. He needed to make a change in his life, but chaining himself to this crippling, mundane existence wouldn’t be the answer. The prospect of this job didn’t make him feel the excitement of discovering a new ingredient to add to an established recipe. The thought of monthly or weekly meetings with superiors to brew to a certain schedule made his temple throb.

And the sight of that old couple made him realise the other important missing piece from his life.

_Bells on a Merlin-damned hill._

Pansy called his name again, but he’d already turned back from whence they came. “No, I’m not… this isn’t….” He took a deep breath and shook his head as if to clear a fog. “This isn’t what I want.”

She hurried around to Draco’s front to look him in the eye. “Good,” she said firmly and eyed him with pride.

“Excellent, shall we move this to brunch? Draco needs to hear all the sappy details of our love story so he can plot how to break up Granger’s wedding. I do my best work after at least three mimosas,” suggested Blaise.

But before they could leave, two surprising figures scrambled frantically out of a nearby fireplace, caught sight of Draco and sprinted over.

“Oh thank Merlin you’re here, maybe you can put a stop to this,” said Ginny breathlessly to Draco.

“I beg your pardon? Put a stop to what?”

“Hermione and Ron, they’ve left us this note, they’re eloping,” Potter explained shortly and thrust a letter at Draco.

_“Harry, sorry, can’t make lunch today, Hermione and I are running off to the transportation office and have to be there around noon. Not sure when we’ll be back, but it’s really important we do this now, hope you can understand. The pressure was just too much and we wanted to do this our way, just the two of us.”_

“Why?” Draco could only blurt as his blood ran cold. “Why would she do this?”

“Why do you think?” Ginny asked in exasperation. “If I’d been a better friend maybe I’d have noticed you idiots are quite possibly perfect for each other. So whatever you did to drive her to this madness you need to fix it before it’s too late.”

_Damn it Granger._

“Granger and I… we’re not… this isn’t… look I don’t like what you’re implying Weaselette, she’s a grown witch and if she wants to marry your brother, then nothing I do or say is going to stop that stubborn thing from getting what she wants.”

“But I don’t think it is what she wants. Look,” Ginny exchanged a quick glance with Potter. “We love my brother but even we’ve noticed in the last few weeks it’s just not… it’s just not making either of them happy. Eloping on an impulse isn’t the answer.”

“They shouldn’t feel like this,” Potter added quietly. “They shouldn’t feel obligated to stay together.”

“We’ll never get there in time,” piped up Pansy, pointing to a large clock face. Draco noticed in a panic that the hands both nudged towards the 12.

_Now or never._

“Which level is magical transportation?” he asked frantically. He resolutely ignored the smirks shared among the entire group.

“Five,” recited Potter. “But with the lift systems, I dunno if we’d make it.”

“The speaker system!” exclaimed Ginny. “I know it’s on this floor! Mum lost the twins once when we came to visit Dad at work and they let us in to the announcement room that’s connected to the Ministry-wide speakers. I hope you’ve got some romantic words prepared, ferret, I don’t think your presentation at Daphne’s wedding was your best showing in the speech department.”

They all bustled off after Ginny, Draco resigned to having an audience for this last-ditch effort at fixing his massive cock-up.

“So your brothers, where were they anyway?” asked a curious Pansy.

“Trying to break into the Department of Mysteries. They’d almost convinced a security wizard they were Ministry employees on the wrong end of a Shrinking Jinx. They were 9 at the time.”

* * *

Hermione wrapped her arms around her middle as she and Ron left the Department of Magical Transportation, task complete. No more honeymoon. No more wedding. No more engagement.

“I can go to Harry and Gin’s for a bit, if that makes things easier?” she offered a solemn Ron.

“No, I’ll just… grab a few things and stay with George I think, he owes me at least. Then I’ll go visit Charlie for a bit once I’ve sorted the travel. I think that’d be good, get out of the country for a time, ‘specially when this hits the papers.”

Hermione put her arms around him in a final, tentative embrace. “I’m sorry Ron. I didn’t mean for… any of this to happen,” she whispered guiltily.

He leaned down and pecked her on the cheek.

“You deserve better Hermione. But so do I.”

Hermione stood rooted to the spot as he turned away with a defeated air. She still couldn’t move as he disappeared into the lifts and left her there alone.

In the span of a day, her entire life had been reduced to a pathetic loneliness. She’d driven away Ron, she’d probably lose that connection with the Weasleys for a good amount of time, she had no parents, and the only person she wanted in that moment couldn’t be bothered.

Without a care for how it might look, Hermione sank onto the nearest stone bench in the hall. Distantly, above the soft clicking and shuffling of the shoes of Ministry employees and visitors walking to and fro in front of her, she heard the crackle of the P.A. system flare to life.

“ _Ladies and gentlemen we hope you are enjoying a pleasant day at the Ministry of Magic,”_ sounded out the usual announcer’s voice, but with a hint of exasperation under the cool professionalism.

_“We have a special announcement from a very… persistent wizard to a witch in the queue of the Department of Magical Transportation.”_

Hermione raised an eyebrow and glanced around. This system was generally reserved for emergencies only or for courtroom summons, hardly a place for “missed connections” type of broadcasts.

_“And since we pretty much let Harry Potter do whatever he wants, here’s his friend currently brandishing a wand in my direction_.”

_Harry?_ Hermione sat up straight and almost pulled out her wand in alarm. Before she could move, another voice commandeered the speaker and she froze.

_“I… I… ouch, bugger, is this thing mobile? I need to take it with me so… I’ll just… cheers, Potter… Right, okay.”_

Hermione’s heartbeat stopped at the sound of his voice. 

“ _Granger! I know you’re somewhere in this damned labyrinth of a building and I hope to Merlin I’m not too late but I just need you to hear me out. And yes, obviously I should have said all this to your face but… well I’ve been a spectacular idiot and so… right, here goes.”_

Her breathing ceased too.

_“Don’t marry Weasley.”_

She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate.

_“Gods, you know I think it’d be nice to grow old with you. Even if you try to correct my stirring techniques, which are flawless as it happens, and I don’t care what your various textbooks have to say on the matter you little swot. I can already hear your prissy voice demanding I justify any and all ingredient substitutions and I’ll probably say something a bit nasty and you’ll snarl right back and we’ll have to just snog each other senseless and agree to disagree. And when your arthritis gets like Mrs. Figg’s I have no qualms about carrying you around, though the Manor has quite a lot of stairs so maybe a Levitation Charm instead.”_

She choked on a laugh through her tears.

_“Which level is this? Clear out of the lifts, people, come on now… Potter could you flash the Auror badge or something? Blaise, find your own lift to snog Pansy in… Move aside everyone… Lovely.”_

She heard the clang of the lift doors. He was on his way to her.

“ _Right, where was I? Granger_ …” his voice softened, losing that demanding and pushy affect. _“I want to make you smile whenever you’re in a mood. I think I’m quite good at that actually, though it was a skill learned late in life, I’ll admit. And remember our first chat? All those months ago at Daphne’s wedding? I meant when I said I wanted the difficult stuff to share. I’ll put in the work too Granger, don’t think I won’t.”_

A few people openly stared at her now, all pretense of official business put on pause to witness a rather ridiculous occurrence in the halls of the government.

_“I’ll brew you potions any time there’s a hint of you feeling sick… I’ll see you get to a bed whenever you drink too much because Merlin knows you’re such a lightweight… gods Granger, I’ll even do the dishes by hand if you really wanted me to free the damn elves. Because if you let me…”_

She heard the lift doors clang open and finally heaved herself to standing.

“ _What part of clear a bloody path is so difficult for you morons?!”_

Draco rounded the corner of the corridor, magical speaker in his hand and came to a stop when he saw her. Instead of closing the distance between them, he spoke softly into the device.

_“If you let me, I would be the man who grows old with you.”_

He let the speaker clatter to the ground and stalked up to her. An odd collection of people behind him –her friends and his—that would have piqued her curiosity if the man approaching her didn’t capture her every sense in that moment.

He glared around at the assembled busybodies of the public and cast a hasty _Muffliato_.

“Am I too late? I’m so sorry, I—”

“I didn’t marry him. I didn’t marry Ron.”

He staggered back a step in confused shock.

“But… the note! The note Weasley left!”

Draco brandished a crumpled piece of parchment at her. Hermione snatched it and uttered “for Godric’s sake, seriously Ron?” under her breath.

“We cancelled the honeymoon portkey,” she explained. “No elopement.”

Draco moved towards her again and looked down at her hopefully. “Is that all you cancelled?”

Hermione smiled up at him. “We cancelled the wedding. Everything.”

She saw the way his breath hitched in his broad chest. He stepped closer.

“So it wouldn’t be forward of me to tell you how I really feel then? And not through a speaker this time?”

“Please,” she murmured. “I’d like to hear it.”

Unfettered honesty made Draco even more attractive. It made his eyes brighter and his features open in a way that connoted his trust in her and the affection between them.

“You’re beautiful and compassionate and funny and… I know you probably hear it all the time but you’re brilliant and I plan on telling you that every bloody day. You make me want to buy a shop and sell potions and make my own way in this world doing something I love and something I excel at, but it’s more than that it’s… it’s…”

She waited him out.

“It’s bells on a hill with you, Granger.”

Hermione took one of his hands.

“Finally understand those silly lyrics then?”

A flash of a boyish grin before Draco turned serious again. “You were right, that song was right. I… feel everything around you. It’s never been that way before, not for me. Not until you.”

Hermione released his hand to loop her arms around his neck. “Best not waste any more time then.”

The kiss they shared could not be mistaken for practice, or accidental, or unintentional in any way. As their lips met, neither could hear the applause from the surrounding crowd, nor the whoops of delight from their friends. Despite being within the walls of the Ministry, Hermione let herself get swept up in a delirious kiss that surged far beyond her classification of appropriate ‘Ministry-tongue.’

When they eventually broke apart, a shared whisper flew between them; a mutual declaration finally given a voice after being stifled for too long.

* * *

Draco happily discovered he was right about how lovely the Malfoy Manor gardens looked in late June during a wedding.

He was right about other things, too.

Granger did have very cold toes in bed. She did challenge almost every improvisational inclination of his in their shared potions lab. She did love him just as fiercely as she vowed to on their wedding day, as she promised each night in their bed, as she swore every morning when she nestled into his side.

Growing old together suited them just fine.

FIN

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who read, commented, and stuck with this story. Thank you to the mods of the romcom fest for hosting such a cool collection of stories!
> 
> And mrsbutlertron, not sure how I begin to thank you for your help on this one. Thank you for always helping me stay true to who I am as a writer and the story I want to tell. You're the best <3
> 
> You can always shout at me on tumblr: [@heyjude19-writing](https://heyjude19-writing.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Welcome to my entry for the Dramione RomCom Fest! Thank you to the fest mods for hosting and for posting such fun prompts! This will be a multi-chapter endeavor because I read the initial posting rules as 15,000 words as the minimum when it was 1,500. So. That’s on me.
> 
> This fic marks the genesis of my beautiful author-beta relationship with mrsbutlertron (@popsiclememories on tumblr). She is lovely and wonderful and this story could not happen without her. Thank you my friend!
> 
> Comments/kudos always appreciated and if you’re so inclined, drop me a line or an ask on tumblr: [@heyjude19-writing](https://heyjude19-writing.tumblr.com/).


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